


Watson's Folly

by Diana Williams (dkwilliams), dkwilliams



Series: The Watsons of Saughton [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Literary Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Omegaverse, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 61
Words: 299,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/Diana%20Williams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/dkwilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, the new Earl of Saughton, is madly in love with the beautiful Mary Morstan. But he has returned from the Peninsular War to find his family on the brink of ruin and his ancestral home mortgaged to the hilt. He has little choice when he is introduced to Mycroft Holmes, a civil servant of apparently unlimited wealth and no social ambitions for himself - but with his eyes firmly fixed on a suitable match for his only brother, the unorthodox and irascible Omega Sherlock Holmes.  Can John forget the woman he loved and find happiness with a man so very different from his lost love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: A Study in Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson, the new Earl of Saughton, arrives home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't necessary to read ["Watson's War"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325806/chapters/2759983) before this story, although it will give you a sense of this John Watson. However, I would recommend reading [Chapter 8: Home to England](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325806/chapters/2943667) and [Chapter 11: Epilogue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325806/chapters/2959762) which are very pertinent to this story.

**Part One: A Study in Courtship**

 

The library of New Saughton, like most of the favoured rooms of the house, looked out over the expansive lawns first laid out by Sir John Clerk and down towards the canal that cut through the property.  The late autumnal sunshine shone weakly through the large windows, catching motes of dust and making them glint like old gold, highlighting the luxury of the room beyond.  The pale light picked out the gleaming wood of the large desk, the rich leather of the chair behind it, the fine wool carpet laid out before the fireplace.  All the soft furnishings were as fresh and bright as a new penny, in stark contrast to the faded man who stood motionless at the window.  His scarlet uniform showing the pale yellow-green facings of the 66th Regiment was precise as a pin, but the unforgiving daylight highlighted every careful mend and threadbare patch, the whole looking out of place among the opulent surroundings.  
  
The man looked just as out of place in the room as his clothes, although he shouldn't have because he'd been born in this very house thirty-some years earlier.  His face was tired and worn beyond his years, aged by illness and responsibility carried too early on young shoulders, and glints of silver shone among the short-clipped hairs on his head as well as in the stubble along his cheek.  His eyes looked out, not on the fading greenery of the Scottish landscape but on the dry and dusty rocks of a desolate island in the south Atlantic seas, on the acrid and indolent heat of a Calcutta market, on the green grandeur of the Pyrenees. He had the look of a man who was not sure if he was dreaming or awake, and half-afraid to learn which it was.

John Watson, 9th Earl of Saughton, had arrived at the ancestral home of the Watsons earlier that day, just as the family was sitting down to dinner.  His sister-in-law, the widowed Countess of Saughton, had been equal parts relieved to see him and aghast at his travel-stained clothes.  She'd first cast herself upon his chest, adding her copious tears to the road-dust clinging to his coat, then fainted dead-away at his feet and had to be laid out on the parlour sofa.  Devoted application of fan and smelling salts by her abigail had brought her around, only to have her cry over her "sainted husband" and "dear angelic babies", and to moan over what would become of her innocent children once they'd been turned into the street by the new heir.  John had thought it prudent to withdraw from the scene. 

He'd been shown to the master bedroom by a new butler, grander than the one he'd known growing up and supported by four footmen.  The room in which he had found himself was not the familiar apartments of his father, but had clearly been redone in recent years for the sapphire blue coverlet and hangings had little wear.  After sleeping in rough and ready camps for the past ten years, the opulence of his surroundings made John uncomfortable and he had only lingered long enough to wash off the dust of the road and change into his spare uniform before quitting the room.  He had attempted an exploration of the house but hadn't gotten much further than the library when fatigue from his bad leg had overwhelmed him, making him take refuge there.

There was a brisk knock and almost before he could call out the door was precipitously opened as his sister made her impetuous way into the room.  "Lord, but that woman should have taken to the stage!  She would have rivalled Mrs. Siddons's performances," Harriet announced as she shut the door behind her.  She strode over to the sideboard and poured a glass of whiskey, carrying it over to him.  "Drink this; you'll feel more the thing afterwards."  
  
"I doubt it," John said drily, then tossed back the contents of the glass.  The taste of real whiskey made his eyes burn for a moment and he coughed.  "Lord, Harry!  Give some warning next time!"  
  
She grinned.  "Been a great deal too long since you had honest Scots whiskey, eh, Johnny?"  
  
"Much too long."  He held out the glass.  "Give us another."  
  
Harry carried the glass back to the sideboard and poured him another tot, hesitated for a moment, then put the stopper back in and poured a glass of sherry for herself.  John raised a questioning eyebrow and she flushed, her cheeks rivalling her strawberry-blond hair for colour.  "Clara," she said shortly.  "Gotten as stern as a Presbyterian lately, and won't there be hell to pay if she catches me being free with the whiskey?"  She settled in one of the chairs before the fireplace, crossed her trousered legs, then looked up at him frankly.  "How bad is it, Johnny?"

"Bad," he said baldly.  "Uncle Alexander didn't go into specifics, just generalities, but..."  He sat back in his chair, staring down into the smoky amber liquid.  "The estates are encumbered, the bank accounts overdrawn, and tradesmen will be dunning us at the door."  He looked around the room and his voice hardened.  "Given the state I've seen of the house and the stables, I am hardly surprised.  James and his lady appear to have been wasting the ready in every way possible."

"Lord, yes, for years!" Harry replied.  "Don't know how they've been able to do it; Clara and I have been having a time making a go of things, what with the war costs and the Corn Laws."

"Why didn't you say something?"

Harry snorted.  "You know James; he patted my head and told me to run along and not worry, exactly as if I was Georgie's age."  The Earl of Dalmahoy shook her head at the folly of their oldest brother, her eyes sharply studying the man across from her.  It had been nearly five years since she'd seen him off to Nepal and Ceylon, but she thought he seemed aged more than that.  "If I'd known it would all fall on your shoulders, I would have told you, Johnny.  What are you going to do?"

John rubbed his forehead wearily, then tossed back the rest of his drink and set the glass on the table.  "I've got to visit Uncle Alex, find out how bad things are, and talk to Wimmering about the estate.  The stable is full, half a dozen hunters plus coach-horses, all eating their heads of, and then there are the racing stables.  They'll have to be sent to Tattersall's and some of the staff turned off.  The London house will most likely need to be sold, too."

"Good riddance to the monstrosity," Harry said, toasting its departure with the rest of her sherry, then set her glass down beside John's.  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and looked John square in the face.  "Will you sell out?"

"I don't know," John replied.  "If I have to sell Saughton - "

"Sell Saughton!" Harry exclaimed, horrified.  "Surely not!"

"It might come to that.  There's Janet's portion to be considered, and the children to provide for.  If I have to sell the estate, keeping my position with the regiment might be my only home, not to mention income."  A brief thought occurred to him that as the Earl of Saughton he would have been a suitable candidate for Mary Morstan's hand.  But the heir to a ruined estate with not even a home to bring her to was even a worse match than a regimental surgeon.

"Well, I hope it won't come to that," Harry said, looking around the room wistfully.  "I like knowing the place is here.  Like having you close, too.  I like you best of all our family."

"Thank you!"

"Not that that's saying much," she added reflexively.  "There's only you and me and Charlie, after all.  Not counting cousins and aunts and uncles, although I don't like most of them above half.  And Uncle Alex frankly terrifies me."  She picked up her empty glass, playing with it absently.  "Didn't much care for James, if truth be told.  And I can't abide Janet at all, with all her posing.  It sounds horrid, but I think she's secretly glad that James and little George died."

"Harry!"

"It's true!" she said defensively.  "She plays at being the devoted mother but what she really likes is playing the martyr and everyone telling her how brave and devoted she is."

"I trust you don't say this in public!"

"Do you think me a gudgeon?  I haven't even said it to Clara, but I know you can keep my confidences.  I wouldn't trust Janet, not as far as I could throw her."  She looked over at him frankly.  "Are you going to offer for Mary?"

Harry was the only one to whom he had confessed his feelings for the young woman he'd fallen in love with in India, and now he regretted that.  He got up to pour another glass so that she couldn't see his face as he said lightly, "I don't see how I can.  Or that General Morstan would allow me her hand if I was to offer."

"Well, that's beastly unfair!" Harry said roundly.  "First you have to settle James's debts, and now you must give up Mary!  Everything falls on you, when none of it is your fault.  Janet thinks that she's the one to be pitied but that's a fudge."

John slammed his glass down on the sideboard and whirled around, glaring at her.  "I don't want anyone's pity!"

"And that's why I like you better," Harry said frankly, not at all alarmed by his flair of temper.

John slumped back against the sideboard, rubbing his temple fretfully.  "Sorry, Harry; I shouldn't snap at you.  It's been a long journey, and I'm not looking forward to being under the same roof as our sister-in-law for any length of time."

"Well, there's a solution to that," Harry said with a grin.  "We can finish her off with a subtle poison in her tea so she can join her beloved husband and sainted children."

"Harry!" John couldn't help laughing at that, though, and Harry joined him.

At that inopportune moment the door opened to admit Lady Saughton, trailing yards of crape and black lace, leaning on the arm of Clara Watson-Dalrymple who gave Harriet a disapproving look.  Janet paused on the threshold, saying in a faint voice, " _Laughing_?  With James and dear little George barely cold in the ground, I am astounded that anyone at Saughton is able to find amusement."

John bit his tongue to keep from saying that it had been nearly four months since their deaths and stepped forward to assist Janet to the sofa.  Janet sank down onto it with the grace that came from considerable practice; Clara arranged a pillow under her sister-in-law's head and a shawl around her shoulders, then retired to the other side of the fireplace after a quick look at her wife.  John took a few minutes while the Countess was made comfortable to cast an assessing look at his sister-in-law; time had faded the widow's beauty but even the peevish expression on her face couldn't hide the fact that she was still a handsome woman.

"I half expected to find you closeted with Wimmering," Janet said in an aggrieved tone.  "That man has been in and out of the house as if he owned it.  I have never liked him, and so I told James many times.  Nothing will convince me that our misfortunes aren't due to his mismanagement of your poor brother's affairs."

"That's utter rot!" Harry snapped and seemed inclined to say more but Clara trod on her foot.

"May we know how matters stand, John?" Clara asked.  "It can't be worse than our own conjectures."

"Nothing would come as a shock to _me_ ," Lady Saughton said in oppressive tones.  "After all that I have been through, I am inured to disaster.  I only wish to know when I will find myself living on the streets."

"It won't come to that," John assured her.  "The Dower House is vouched-safe to you, and I am certain that your jointure is secure as well."

"That place!" Janet said disdainfully.  "It is horribly outdated and faded, and lord knows I won't be able to refurbish it."

"But it's in a fashionable part of town," Clara said encouragingly.  "You'll have so many visitors, and you know how that cheers you.  And you'll have the children with you, which will be such a comfort."

"My darling babes, the only joy left in my life!"  Janet raised a small black-laced handkerchief to her eyes, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. 

John wondered if she even remembered the names or ages of her three remaining children, then reproached himself for his uncharitable thoughts.  To make amends, he poured a glass of sherry and gave it to her.  "There is no need for an immediate move," he said.  "Not unless this house makes you unhappy."

Janet raised tear-bright eyes to him and took his hand, squeezing it gratefully.  "You are very good to me, Brother.  And of course you won't want to have this house without a mistress - the servants never look after a place properly without someone to keep an eye on them."

John doubted that Janet had ever bestirred herself about household matters but he diplomatically refrained from saying so.  Harry was not so politic and she said baldly, "Until Saughton is sold, at any rate."

"Must Saughton be sold?" Clara asked, horrified, then noted that Janet appeared to be suffering a Spasm.  Her vinaigrette was waved under her nose and a dose of hartshorne poured out, after which she was able to lift her head weakly from the pillow.  "Thank you, dear Clara!" she uttered in failing tones.  "Do not regard me!  It was the agitation of having dreadful tidings broken in such a way - "  She paused and glared at Harriet in a way that had nothing of the invalid in it, then turned a tremulous smile to John.  "You have been a stranger to your home for such a long time; you can have no idea what Saughton means to us."  She blew her little nose delicately with her handkerchief and said, mournfully, "James would have understood how wrenching a blow this is to me!  Always so considerate, partaking of all my sentiments!"

John exchanged a look with Harriet, both aware that James had been an intensely selfish person, generous to others only when it was of no cost to himself.  But again, John said nothing out loud and the look Clara gave Harry made her subside in her chair with a scowl.  John sighed and set himself to the onerous task of soothing his sister-in-law's feelings. 

The only bright spot was that shortly after the tea tray was removed, Janet declared her nerves shattered and tottered off to bed.  John saw Harry and Clara down to their carriage, then made his weary way up the stairs to his own bed.  As he blew out his candle and settled down under the unfamiliar silk sheets, he bleakly thought that, as bad as today had been, tomorrow would be infinitely worse.


	2. Part I: Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson finds out that matters are worse than he thought, and that drastic measures may be required to save the family.

The household was still asleep when John quit his room the next morning.  He had slept badly, disturbed by dreams of El Badon and Toulouse, and finally left his bed at dawn.  Life in the military had inured him to early hours and, restless to learn the full extent of the family's misfortunes, he quickly dressed and made his way downstairs.  The kitchen maid was startled by his appearance but managed to locate a bit of bread and cheese for him to break his fast with as he made his way to the stables.  The head groom greeted him warmly, having put him on his first pony years ago, and watched with a critical eye as he saddled his horse, nodding approvingly when he was done.

"Aye, you've still got the way of it, laddie," he commented as he gave John a leg-up into the saddle.  "Your lordship, I mean.  It's good to have you home."

John grinned down at him.  "It's good to be home, Ross."  And for the first time since he'd arrived in England, he felt the truth in that.

He rode down the main carriage drive, choosing to take the route through the home farms to Queensferry Road.  What he saw made him frown for the lands showed no sign of recent use, the furrows were overgrown, and the hedges in bad shape.  He had no doubt that he would find the fences in disrepair as well, and resolved to meet with his brother's bailiff as soon as possible.  The Lodge looked well-kept, however, and he recalled that Harry had said that the head gardener and his wife resided there with their children.  He thought that he would stop in during his return, to begin introducing himself to his new dependants.

The realization that so many people now depended on him for things outside of his skills left him feeling depressed, and the ride into Edinburgh gave him too much time to brood over the situation he'd found himself in.  By the time he was shown into his uncle's office, he had the most dismal view of his future.

Alexander Carnegie gave him a shrewd look from under his bushy eyebrows as he shook hands and set him in the chair in front of his desk.  "Och, laddie, dinnae look so glum! It's none so bad as all that."

"How can you possibly say that?" John demanded, "The farms are mortgaged - not that they appear to have been cultivated in _years_.  There are a stack of accounts on the desk at home that are months in arrears, even if I had the means to pay them.  You _said_ the accounts are all overdrawn."

"That they are.  There's not a drop of credit that could be extended, not as matters stand now."

"What about the funds my mother left to me?" John asked.  "I haven't touched them in years.  Surely they are worth something."

"Not enough, and I won't be one to advise you to throw good money after bad.  You'll come about, but it'll be hard work and economies need to be made."

John nodded.  "The hunting stock at the stables must be sold, and surely there's no need for four footmen at Saughton?  And the house in London as well as the furnishings."

Alexander was relieved to hear that John was willing to be practical, a trait that James had lacked entirely.  "I will draw up a list of what economies can be made, but I advise against rushing to sell everything off at once.  Nothing is more likely to send your creditors into a panic."

"What about Saughton?" John asked.  "It isn't mortgaged; can it be sold?"

"Sell Saughton?" Alexander exclaimed, aghast.  "You can't be serious!  It's the family home."

"Only since my grandfather's time.  Old Saughton has been in the family much longer, although that's part of the entail, as I understand."

Alexander nodded.  "Indeed, but lad, surely there's no need to sell the estate."

John rubbed his forehead, trying to forestall the headache he could feel building.  "I wish you could tell me how I am to pay for its upkeep and staff, while at the same time settling this load of debt and providing for James's children - but you can't, can you?"

Alexander studied his sister's youngest son across the desk with a critical eye.  The young Earl didn't have his brother's magnificent physique but he was of average height and well-built, a good-looking young man.  He appeared older than his thirty-three years, his face a little lined from squinting his eyes against a harsh sun and his skin weather-beaten, but he had a smile that lit up his face.  He walked with a slight limp that made Alexander wonder if he'd endured an injury in addition to the gunshot to his shoulder, but there was a vitality to his movements that spoke of the energy to get things done.  A prospective bride could do much worse than John Watson, even without the title to consider.

Alexander cleared his throat, not certain how to approach this delicate matter.  "There are other ways to restore the family fortunes."

"What, take to the High Toby?"

"Nothing so distasteful.  You wouldn't be the first scion of a noble house to revive the family fortunes through a judicious alliance."

John stared at him in disbelief.  "Are you honestly suggesting that I marry for money?"

"It has been done, John - more often than you would think."

"That might be true but it is not a course I'd like to pursue.  What's more, I'd make a bloody poor candidate for marriage!"

Alexander ignored the obscenity, judging that John was agitated.  "Your lineage is distinguished, you hold a title, your estate is considerable and held to be pretty."

"All of which sound very fine until you look underneath the gold plate to find the dross.  I'll put Saughton on the block before I sell myself!"

There was a note of finality in his voice that made Alexander raise his eyebrows.  "Have you already formed an attachment?"

John looked away.  "Not as such," he said finally.  "Not that it matters."

 _So his young nephew had tumbled into a flirtation while abroad, most likely with a completely ineligible female_ , Alexander thought. He had little doubt that John would recover from this calf-love and make a sensible decision, but he resolved to say nothing more for the moment.  Instead, he would send out discreet inquiries among his acquaintances and see what developed.  This decided, he set about educating John about the management of his accounts.  John, trying to make heads or tails of the figures in the ledgers, shook his head and said ruefully, "You must think me an idiot to ask so many questions.  I've never dealt with much money, but I must understand how to manage all this."

Far from thinking his nephew a fool, Alexander lauded his admission of ignorance and willingness to learn so he bit back any hint of impatience or the suggestion that the Earl leave matters in his hands, and concentrated on the basic matters John would need to know.

"James had a bank account in London as well," Alexander said when they'd gone through the late Earl's accounts.  "You will need to go there personally to settle matters."  John looked anxious at that and Alexander hastened to reassure him.  "I will give you a draft on this bank to cover it; best to have all the accounts in one place.  James's man in London will have a list of his accounts there: his club, tailor, haberdasher, and so forth."

John looked harassed at the idea of dealing with more financial matters and Alexander decided to wrap things up for now.

"Cheer up, lad," he said, shaking hands with John as he walked him to the door.  "Things look grimmer than they are."

John found that hard to believe but he expressed his gratitude to his uncle and went to retrieve his horse from the stables.

"That lad will do," Alexander said to himself as he watched the young Earl leave, then he called in his personal secretary and began drafting inquiries.

 


	3. Part I: Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to see Mary Morstan and her family, to break the understanding between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Mary" in this chapter and the rest of the story is not exactly the one from ACD or from Sherlock-BBC, but rather a combination of both plus a bit of "Julia" from the Heyer fusion story. Which means that you should expect the unexpected from her. As to the background behind Mary's "problem", there is more information in the chapter on "Omegaverse" in the [Worldbuilding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/2762206) document.

Aware of the emptiness of his belly, John repaired to an inn for a bit of luncheon and a pint.  As he ate his repast, he bleakly considered that he'd been happier eating rations on campaign with the possibility of battle ahead than he was sitting in this comfortable inn with good ale and beef to dine on.  And the most difficult task lay ahead of him, one which he shouldn't put off any longer.  He paid his tab, collected his horse from the ostler, and set off for Barnton House.

John handed his horse off to the groom at Barnton and trod up the stairs to the front door.  His heart was beating fast, his throat was uncomfortably dry, and he felt like a coward for hoping that Mary was away.  He didn't think he could face her yet, not until his blighted hopes had time to burn down to an ash.

He was conducted to General Morstan's study and received cordially by the old gentleman, although he thought he could detect some wariness in his manner.  After shaking hands, the General pointed him to a chair and said, "My condolences on the death of your brother, Captain Watson.  Bit unexpected, that, him being such an avid sportsman."

"So I understand." John licked his lips, trying to come up with the right words. 

Morstan offered him a glass of whiskey which he politely refused, then poured a glass for himself and sat down across from him, his shrewd eyes studying John's face.  "I'm not going to stand on ceremony with you, John.  How badly do matters stand?"

"Very badly, sir.  I might manage to clear the debt after some years, but that is the best to hoped."

Morstan sighed.  "I was afraid that was the case.  James was playing ducks and drakes with his money for years, and Lady Saughton has no notion of economy."  He paused.  "You realize that a marriage between you and Mary is quite impossible.  I'm devilishly sorry about it, John, but I can't state matters clearer than that."

"I understand, sir," John said, although he could barely get the words out because his lips, his whole face, felt numb.  "I never thought that I could be good enough for Mary, but I had hoped..."  He cleared his throat.  "Well, there's nothing to be done.  If you would express my regrets to Miss Morstan - "

"Don't be a sapskull, boy!  There's no one I'd liefer have for my little Mary, and while I'd like her to have all the pretty gee-gaws her heart desires, I'd rather she was happy, like her mother.  A fine young man like you will make his own way in the world, and that I do not doubt."

John frowned.  "But - I don't understand, sir.  You said I can't marry her."

Morstan nodded.  "You are the last of the Watsons, and you need an heir, my boy.  Mary can't give you one and that's the plain fact of it."

"Are you certain that...?"  John paused, flushing, and rubbed his hand over his face nervously at the prospect of discussing such a delicate topic. 

The General nodded.  "Best you know now before you go about setting up your nursery."

John stood abruptly and went to the window, staring out of it with unseeing eyes.  Of all the obstacles in the way of marriage between the two of them, he'd never considered that Mary might be one of those Betas unable to have children.  He'd known that she was a Beta, that both of her parents were Betas as well, but his mother had been a Beta so he had thought nothing of it.  And, as matters had stood between him and Mary before his inheritance of the title, whether she could have children hadn't been an issue.  In fact, it would have been easier to follow the regiment without worrying about children. However, the General was right; one day John would have to produce an heir or the Saughton line would end.  This news was more crushing than the weight of his debt for he could see no way around it.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall and the protesting voice of Mrs. Morstan in the hall before the door was flung open and Mary impetuously entered the room.

"John!" she said with delight, coming forward with her hands outstretched, the train of her riding skirt looped over her arm.  "I had no idea you were home until Jenkins said you were upstairs with Grandfather."

John had turned from the window on her entrance and he took her hands in his, his eyes avidly drinking in the sight of her lovely face.  Three years in England had bleached out her sun-darkened skin and her recent exercise had pinked her cheeks giving her a lovely peaches and cream complexion.  Her fair hair was styled in the height of fashion, and the feathery curls that cascaded from under her hat made her look even more ethereal than before.  He thought he had never seen anyone more angelic.  "Miss Morstan.  You look well."

She smiled up at him.  "I was quite cross with Mama when she insisted we leave London for the holidays, but now I'm glad.  Are you home for good?"

"I don't know," John replied.  "There are...matters...to be settled.  After that..."

Mary frowned at him when he made no move to kiss her cheek, as he had often done before they left India.  "Why are you acting so strangely, John?"  She looked over at her grandfather and then back at John.  "Has Grandfather been telling you nonsense about how we can't be married because of your brother's shocking debts?  I never heard anything so silly - as if I care about your money!"

"My debts are such that I can't begin to see my way clear, and I may have to sell Saughton, but - "

"Your family home!" she cried out, aghast.  "It's so beautiful!  What will you do then?"

"Return to my regiment, I suppose, once I settle my brother's family comfortably.  I will need to support myself somehow.  Unless they put me on half-pay."

Mary's troubled countenance lightened.  "Is that what you're worried about?  Stoopid!  As if I haven't lived my whole life following the drum!"

"Mary," her mother protested, faintly. 

"And if you go on half-pay, then you'll put up your shingle and become the most sought after doctor in Edinburgh," Mary added blithely.  "I'll live in a shepherd's hut if I have to; as long as we are together, I can be happy anywhere.  After all, Papa had little money when he married Mama, and they were as happy as grigs."

"Mary," General Morstan said sharply.  "Lord Saughton will need an heir."

Mary went scarlet at that, dropping John's hands and stepping back.  "Grandfather!"

"No one could be more sorry than I that things have turned out as they have," General Morstan said briskly, "but you must understand that marriage between you is out of the question.  John has responsibilities now that he must consider."

Mary listened to this with whitened cheeks and, looking quickly at John, read the same message on his face.  Tears welled up in her eyes and she dashed them away with her hand, her lips trembling.  "Very well.  I would have done anything for you, John.  Anything!  Followed you anywhere, withstood any privation - none of that would have mattered because we would have been together.  Just because - because I can't have children..." She paused as her voice caught on a sob.  "You cast me off.  I wouldn't have done so to you!"  She hurried to the door and slammed it behind her as she left.

Mrs. Morstan flushed and she turned to John.  "Captain - Lord Saughton - I do apologize!  And so will Mary once she gets over her disappointment.  My heart aches for both of you but you have done just as you ought."  She embraced him briefly, then went after her daughter.

"I think I had better leave as well," John said, trying to breathe through the pain in his chest at her words.  There was an odd feeling in his ears and a familiar ache in his leg, and he wondered if it would hold him when he stood.

"One moment, John," Morstan interrupted.  "Were you serious when you spoke about selling Saughton?"

"Quite serious, as a matter of fact."

Morstan shook his head, frowning in thought.  "Something must be done, John.  It's your duty to save Saughton, whatever the cost.  For your heirs and the Watsons after them."

John rubbed his forehead as the threatened headache loomed.  "I wish you might tell me how.  I've thought and thought and I can't see a way out."

"What about marriage?  Not to Mary, of course, but there are plenty of Betas and Omegas with money - "

"Have you been speaking to my uncle Alexander?" John said sharply, then slumped into a chair, covering his face with his hand.  "I beg your pardon, sir.  I know that you are trying to be kind."

"Your uncle sounds like a wise man but I expect you can't see that just yet," Morstan said.  He frowned for a moment in thought, drumming his fingers on his knee.  "What are your plans, John?  Are you returning to your regiment?"

"Not till after the first of the year, sir.  I have to meet with my bailiff and see how matters stand, and sort out other matters before I travel there.  I have several more months leave before I must make a decision."

"Good!  I have some thoughts but I won't tell you more until I sound them out.  Don't do anything rash in the meantime!"

John agreed although he hardly knew what he was agreeing to, then took his leave, hoping that the worst of this day was over with.

 


	4. Part I: Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns home after two very upsetting interviews.

John's leg was aching fiercely by the time he turned his horse into the long drive and his head pounded in sympathy.  He hoped that the household was busy with other things for he longed for some peace and quiet, a place to curl up in the dark and mourn his loss.  He was paying little attention to his surroundings until a flurry of movement from the hedgerow caught his attention and a young boy burst out onto the road.  His horse shied at the unexpected movement and, thinking quickly, John turned his horse at the same time that he reached down and pulled the boy up into his saddle.

"Whoa there, lad!" he said, his heart hammering at the close call. "Look where you're going!"

The little boy looked up at him in gape-toothed awe.  "S-Sorry, m'laird!" he stammered.  "Was after m'ball."

"Well, next time make sure the road is clear first," he said, ruffling the auburn curls of the boy.  "Where do you live, my lad?"  
  
"The Lodge, m'laird."  
  
The boy gestured at the house sitting on the corner of the long drive and Queensbury Road.  John turned off the drive and into the yard of the Lodge as a man, woman, and several children burst out of the house.  The man's face was ashen as he hurried over to John, and it was clear from the likeness that he was the boy's father.  
  
"Seonaidh!" he cried out, and for a moment John thought the man was addressing him in Gaelic, but all his attention was on the boy in John's arms.  "Whit waur ye thinkin'?"  He reached up.  "I'll tak' him, m'laird, if ye please, an' skelp his wee behin' for worryin' us tae death!"

John handed the boy down saying, "Don't be too hard on him - I understand it was the fault of a stray ball."

"That's as may be, and cheers tae God you're a deft hain wi' a horse, m'laird."  The man looked around, focusing on the woman standing in the doorway with a small child in her arms.  "Sarah!  Fetch a dipper a' water for his lordship!"

The woman scowled and went back into the house, slamming the door behind her in a way that told John he wouldn't be getting any water.  The man flushed red with embarrassment and looked over at a gangly youth with dark hair and eyes who was keeping two small red-headed girls away from John's horse. 

"Hamish!  Tak' yer brither an' th' lasses inside an' fetch some water for his lordship." 

The youth readily took the smaller boy from his father and herded the girls into the cottage, closing the door more gently than his mother.

"Sorry about th' missus, m'laird," the man said gruffly.  "She's bin upsit since th' late lord's bairn died.  Fond a' th' wee one she was."

"No need to apologize - "  John cast about in his memory for a name.  " - Martin.  You're the head gardener here, aren't you?"

Sean Martin's face lit up.  "That I am, m'laird, 'most twinty years."

"Well, you're doing a splendid job.  The gardens are quite nice, and I look forward to seeing them in bloom in the spring."

Martin beamed at him.  "There's naethin' as brammer as these gardens, an' soon you'll see, m'laird."

Hamish emerged from the house, a tin cup in his hand which he held up to John.  "Frae th' well, m'laird, th' best water in th' county."

John gave the battered tin cup a dubious look and surreptitiously wiped the edge with his cuff before taking a sip.  It was cool and refreshing, though the slight metallic taste made him doubt that it was the best water in the county, and he handed the empty cup back to the young man with his thanks.  The youth gave him a smile that looked oddly familiar then slipped back to the house.   After a few more words with the gardener, John took his leave and turned his horse back onto the driveway towards the house, unaware that neither his head nor his leg were hurting now. 

The household staff had obviously been on the watch for him, for as he rode up the drive the front door burst open and there was a flurry of activity, much to his dismay as he had been looking forward to another chat with Ross in the stables.  A stable-boy ran up to take the reins of his horse while John dismounted, and then John was ushered up the stairs by two footmen and the butler.  He surrendered his hat and riding gloves to Winston and was told that Lady Saughton had gone out to pay calls on neighbours and would not be returning until late.  Mrs. Price waylaid him next about arrangements for the holidays, and he was glad to agree with her that Lady Saughton should make those decisions, trusting that their state of mourning would keep her from over-lavish entertaining.  Wimmering appeared next with the news that the estate books had been updated with the harvest reports and were waiting on his desk, and that he would return the next day to discuss plans.  John could feel his headache returning with each task laid before him, and it was with great relief that he retreated to his study on the ground floor for some much needed peace and quiet.  
  
The room was quiet and dark, the curtains already drawn against the setting November sun, but a fire had been laid and a lamp lit.  He slowly crossed the room to sit at the desk, limping slightly as the ache in his leg made itself known again.  The estate books were sitting in a neat pile in the centre of the desk, along with a sheaf of bills and a note in Wimmering's neat hand-writing on top.  John sighed and pulled them toward him; there was no point in putting off the matter and it was best to know just how badly the estate stood.  He looked through the records in the ledger of which plots of land were under cultivation by the home farm, which were to let, and which lay unused, as well as the rents collected and the sales from the last harvest.  Even to his untutored eyes, it was obvious that the land was not being used to its potential, and he picked up the pen to make some notes.  The quill was badly blunted so he searched for a knife to mend it with but when he opened the bottom right drawer he forgot all about the knife and the pen.  
  
James's pistol lay in the drawer.  It gleamed in the lamp light, showing that it had been well cared for, and he slowly lifted it out to test the balance and see if it was loaded.  It was, and it beckoned to him with its siren song.  
  
For a moment, he was tempted.  It would be so easy to lift the pistol and place the muzzle against his temple, to put a period to his existence.  There would be few to mourn his passing, he thought.  Harry would be sad, of course, and Charlie, but he had seen little of them over the past ten years and that distance would make the grief less overwhelming.  Mary - his hand shook at the thought of the real pain that his death would cause her, but could it be any worse than the vast gulf that separated them?  Somehow, it had been more bearable when he had believed that only his financial straits stood between them, for there was always the distant hope that he might come about.  But now, could he live with the ashes of his hopeless romance?

He laid the pistol down on the gleaming desktop and stared at it.  What would Mary think of him if he took the coward's way out?  Would she despise him for his weakness?  Would she understand that the loss of her mattered so much to him?  He thought that perhaps she would, although Mary was not as fanciful a romantic as her mother.

But what would become of Saughton?  He had no heirs and all of the living Watsons were Betas except for Harriet and Georgia.  However, they were both bound to the Dalmahoy line and the letters patent said they couldn't inherit the Watson title.  If only Clara could have had more Alpha children...if his brother George hadn't drowned...if only George or James had sown a few wild oats that had been legitimized - but those were all futile wishes.  The fact was that if John died now the title would become extinct and the land would revert to the crown.  The tenants would be put off the land, the staff would be sacked, strangers would inhabit Saughton, and James's widow and children would have no protector.  The Watson name would be smirched, its honour stained, and the men he had served with would never speak his name again.  Was that something he could do?

He quickly put the pistol back in the drawer and locked it, then sat back in the chair and scrubbed his face with his hands.  He found that he was breathing hard, as if he had run a great distance bearing his medical panniers.  He also felt quite sick to his stomach and grabbed for the waste bin. 

Once the roiling of his stomach stopped, he wiped his hand over his mouth, staggered to his feet, and made his way to the sideboard.  The brandy sloshed as he tried to pour some into a glass but he managed to drink it without spilling.  That helped settle his stomach but the room suddenly felt too hot and too close.  He grabbed the brandy decanter and fled from the study.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning John woke up on the floor of the library and regretted his over-indulgence.  The empty brandy decanter lay beside him and he sincerely hoped that no one had seen him behaving in such a manner.  He felt deeply ashamed of his dramatics from the previous evening and his cheeks flushed as he recalled what he had briefly thought about doing.  That utter blackness of despair was unlike him.  Captain John Watson, late of the 66th and the 5th Regiments of Foot, did not give in to despair.  Regimental Surgeon Watson did not shirk his responsibilities.  And the new Earl of Saughton would behave no differently.  He would stiffen his spine, hide his personal grief, and carry on.

As soon as he managed to get up from the floor.

With a bit of judicious manoeuvring, he managed to attain a standing position and then slowly made his way to his room.  A look in the mirror made him shudder and he rang for hot water so that he could shave and make himself more presentable.  His search through his wardrobe for a clean shirt reminded him that he needed to order his blacks for civilian wear, if any tailor in Edinburgh could be found who wasn't dunning the estate.  As for the rest of his clothes, his boots were worn but well enough and his cravats were plain but serviceable.  He would need to think about a valet, but surely he could wait until after the mourning period was over and he was required to go about in society. 

When he felt presentable once more, he squared his shoulders and turned for the door only to feel his leg give out.  For a moment despair again threatened, but he drew in a deep breath and set his jaw, then grabbed a cane from the stand by the wardrobe.  He would not let the weakness of his body keep him from his responsibilities.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the next few weeks, John devoted himself to his new role in life.  Wimmering had a willing pupil as he went over the details of the estate, and most evenings John tumbled into bed with a head aching with the knowledge stuffed into it.  On days when the increasingly colder weather permitted, he rode about the estate with Wimmering to observe first-hand the condition of the land.  What he saw filled him with even more despair;  many of the cottages were in bad repair and would need to be pulled down all together, no improvements had been made in at least a dozen years, and there was no money to even consider replacing machinery or updating the farming techniques.  There were several building projects that had been abandoned, such as an extension to the house that only had the footings and groundwork laid out.  James had built a water tower and pump system but although the pipe-course had been laid to the house, it hadn't been completed. And behind the rich new decorations, the house itself was showing wear and a lack of maintenance.

Still, there was a richness to the land and the few fields that were being harvested were producing good crops.   He knew that if he could find a way to increase the number of fields farmed and bring the equipment up to snuff, the rewards would be worth it.  The question was whether he would have enough time to accomplish that.

When not closeted with Wimmering or trying to make sense of finances, John endured the company of his sister-in-law.  She was full of plans for the removal of herself and the nursery party to the Dower house although no date had been set as of yet.  Janet mourned the reduction in festivities for Christmas and didn't speak to John for two days after he vetoed a party for Hogmanay, but finally compromised on a modest display of greenery and a small assembly of family.  John privately thought that the Fourth Treaty of Paris had required less negotiation.

During the day, John dealt with the mind-numbing minutia that made up his life while at night he dreamed of Busaco, and Ciudad Rodrigo, and Salamanca.  And when he woke with a sense of devastating loss in the pre-dawn darkness, he deliberately refused to think about the locked drawer in the study.

There were two bright points in the overwhelming grey of his December.  The first was that Charlie came home for Christmas, and that he brought a letter from his friend, Walter Henry, who had replaced him as Regimental Surgeon at John's suggestion.  The letter was full of news of their fellow soldiers and surgeons, of the trivia that had made up their daily lives on St. Helena, as well as more grave news.  The former Emperor's health was deteriorating, although his new doctor had yet to find a cause, but more important to John was the news that Major Sholto had been injured during a fire at one of the barracks.  He had risked his own life to bring out four of the six men billeted there, and during his failed attempt to rescue the last two he had sustained burns to part of his face and his hands.  Major Sholto had been dispatched on the next ship for England where it was reported that he was recovering well at the hospital in Portsmouth.  John resolved to write to the major and to visit him when he went to London in January. 

The second bright spot was the extended visit of his niece, Georgia, toward the end of December, ostensibly to give her governess a holiday.  John was pleased to discover that despite the maturity of her seventeen years, Georgia was still a kindred spirit and an enjoyable companion.  She indulged her aunt's desire to talk about the preparations for her début in Edinburgh Society in the summer and her mother's plans for a London Season the following year, but she was much more interested in hearing about John's adventures in Nepal and India.  For her benefit, he dredged up every detail of their campaigns as well as every native tale he could remember, and he wove the bare facts of the Sign of Three into a story that she declared was as good as any novel she'd ever read. 

Georgia was also very frank in her questions about the estate, as well as her opinions of her Aunt Janet, strongly reminding John of Harry.  When John tried to brush off her inquiries, she said, very indignantly, "I may be young but I'm not an idiot! Papa has been teaching me to manage _our_ estates since I could cipher."

"Well, I wish mine had taught me," John said ruefully.  "I find it more difficult to comprehend the account books than my first year of Chemistry at University.  Wimmering is patient with me, but he must think I'm a clot-head for I don't find talk about under-draining and embankments comprehensible at all, and when he spoke of the Four-Course System, I thought he was referring to a dinner party."

Georgia giggled at that even as she rolled her eyes, but then she became serious again.  "Papa says you might have to sell Saughton.  Is it true?"  When John nodded, she frowned.  "I can't imagine selling Dalmahoy - I've lived there my entire life.  If only the harvests hadn't been so awful lately - and Mama says that Aunt Janet hasn't the slightest notion of economy.  Which," she added fairly, "she _would_ say because Papa says that Mama can squeeze a penny till it squeaks.  Papa says that you'll be happier when Aunt Janet moves into her new home, but then Papa and Aunt Janet have never gotten on."

Having been in the same room with both Harry and Janet, John could agree that there was definite animosity between the two women, although he refrained from asking Georgia if she knew the reason behind it, other than them both being strong-willed individuals who each wanted their own way. 

" _Are_ you unhappy, Uncle John?" Georgia asked bluntly, fixing him with an intent stare.  "You are.  Is it Saughton or something else?  Never mind - you won't tell me, you'll just say 'it's all fine' as you did when you were shot.  I won't tease you about it, but you'll tell me if I can help, won't you?"

John assured her that he would while privately vowing not to trouble his all-too-perceptive niece.  And although he would never reveal the exact reasons for his underlying unhappiness, Georgia was empathetic enough to discern which topics were safe to broach and which to leave alone.  She was full of humorous plans for the revival of his fortunes, of which taking to piracy on the high seas was her favourite - although she acknowledged that it would be very disagreeable for Uncle Charlie to have to hunt down his own brother.  Her second favourite plan was that John should adopt a false name and take to the stage where he would so impress the audiences that they would bestow untold fortunes on him.  This scheme made Harry laugh so hard that John was sure she'd do damage to herself and forced Georgia to admit that her favourite uncle had absolutely no talent for acting.  Unfortunately, she then conceived the idea that _she_ would take to the stage to earn vast fortunes which she would generously bestow on her Uncle John.  She reluctantly abandoned that plan when he pointed out that a life on the stage, no matter how glamorous, would mean she couldn't have a London Season.  What she _didn't_ suggest was a brilliant marriage that would restore his fortunes, and he was grateful for whatever instinct steered her away from that subject.

On the last day of the year, the remaining members of the Watson clan gathered at Saughton House, possibly for the final time as it was becoming increasingly clear that only a miracle would save the estate.  There was a melancholy air to the gathering, and John could almost feel the ghosts of the departed: his parents, his brothers James and George, his sisters Anne and Helen, and James's four little children.  At least, he reflected, Harriet and Clara's marriage was on the mend and their children healthy, Charlie was captain of his own ship and bound for the Americas in the new year, and his brother's widow was resigned to her move to the Dower House.  As he joined in the toasts to a future that looked dreary, he could rejoice that it was only he who was unsettled and at loose ends, with a heart that was bruised beyond repair.

 


	5. Part I: Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to London and has two very different encounters with two strange men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is everyone depressed enough about poor John yet? Ready to get into the "things are looking up - eventually" part of the story?
> 
> Note: I am casting Michael Fassbender in the role of John's first visitor. Just in case you want a visual to ~~drool over~~ look at. However, feel free to envision anyone you want as Colonel Moran.

After the first of the year, Charles was ordered to report to Portsmouth for assignment to the West Indies, and John went with him rather than endure the tribulations of travelling by coach on the Great North Road in the dead of winter.  He then travelled by post from Portsmouth to London and, arriving at the house in Grosvenor Street, found the furnishings in Holland covers and the majority of the staff on holiday.  The mansion was just as large and ostentatiously furnished as he remembered from his convalescence there, and as the caretaker showed him over the rooms he was flooded with memories of those painful and dreary months during his illness.  He knew that this was one possession he wouldn't regret parting with in the slightest.  Instead of opening up the house, he decided to put up at a private hotel on the Strand although he reflected that he couldn't afford to do so for long.  
  
Pickering, James's man of business in London, presented himself to John at his hotel after luncheon and seemed extremely relieved that John was prepared to be reasonable.  Plans were made to send the late Earl's horses to Tattersall's, and to sell his hunting lodge and the London house.  However, even John could see that the sale of the horses in the midst of winter was not likely to bring about the full amount spent on them, and it was likely that the sale of the properties would take months.  In the meantime, the estate was bleeding money and there were more tradesmen's bills to be settled. 

John set Pickering to discovering the full extent of the late Earl's London debts while he went to the bank to close that account.  Mr. Thomas Coutts, the elder founder of Coutts Bank, was affable as John was shown into his office but he could see that the banker was worried that the new Earl of Saughton would make demands for credit that they were not prepared to meet. 

"Lord Saughton," Coutts said, gesturing for John to take the chair in front of his desk.  "May I extend my condolences on the death of your brother?  He was a client of ours for many years."  
  
John could see that Coutts was comparing him with his more magnificent brother and finding him short of the mark.  He wasn't a vain man, but being dismissed like that stung his pride and he pulled out his most charming smile, the one that had fluttered the hearts of Betas on three continents.  "I beg your pardon for the delay in settling my brother's accounts.  This sort of business is new to me and it has taken some time to determine his liabilities." 

John presented the draft on the Bank of Scotland, signed by his uncle, and had the satisfaction of seeing the surprise on Coutts's face. The banker examined the draft, read the plans Wimmering had helped him draw up for the settlement of the debts on the estate, then sat back in his chair and studied the new Earl.

"Lord Saughton, this bank has served your father and grandfather through good and bad.  We extended credit to your brother beyond his assets on the recommendation of his wife's cousin, Mr. Majoribanks of Mansfield, Ramsey, and Company in Edinburgh.  I was against the idea, particularly because your uncle, Alexander Carnegie, had little confidence in the late Earl's financial acumen, but my partners thought he would grow into financial wisdom.  Alas, that did not occur."  He looked at the documents again, then held out his hand to John.  "However, once you have resolved your current...difficulties, this bank would be honoured to extend to you any of our financial services."

Surprised and pleased, John shook his hand.  It didn't take long to resolve the accounts and close the books on the late Earl's finances, and John left with a sense of having accomplished a great deal.  Mr. Coutts watched him go and turned to his clerk saying, "That young man is more like his father, with the same quiet manner, the same cool head in a crisis.  Mark my words: he'll bring his family about."

* * *

 

On the success of his meeting with the bank, John ordered a good dinner and a bottle of wine to go with it.  He had just ended his meal and was settling down with the rest of the wine when the waiter returned and presented a visiting card.

"Gentleman waiting downstairs, my lord."

John picked up the card and read it with a puzzled frown.  It was the sort of card and lettering that the sporting gentlemen among the _ton_ favoured; _Colonel Sebastian Moran_ was the name and an address in Mayfair was listed below.  The name sounded vaguely familiar, and he cudgelled his mind for the reason but nothing came immediately to mind.  He could tell from the young waiter's expression that he had been impressed.

"Ask Colonel Moran to step upstairs," John said. 

The waiter bowed and left, returning with a handsome young Alpha in his wake.  The man was a little older than John, clearly retired from military service as he sported a neat ginger beard, with dark red hair cut shorter than the fashionable set wore it.  He had sharp blue eyes that seemed to assess John at a glance, and a confident air that told John that he was accustomed to leadership. 

John rose to his feet.  "Colonel Moran?"

The man looked surprised at the sight of John and he paused on the threshold of the room.  " _You_ are the new Earl of Saughton?"  There was a hint of an Irish lilt to his voice, but it wasn't one he recognized.

"I am," John replied.  "Do I know you, Colonel?"

Colonel Moran appeared to hesitate for a moment, then straightened his shoulders and came forward.  "No, I don't believe we've met, my lord, but your brother was a great friend of mine.  A fine young man - just the sort I'd like to see in my old regiment."  He sighed and shook his head.  "His death was a sad business, my lord; very sad."

"Yes," John said, then gestured towards the chairs in his private parlour.  "Would you have a seat?  And may I offer you a drink?"

"I wouldn't mind a brandy, if you have it to hand," Colonel Moran replied, settling into one of the chairs.  He ran a hand over his beard, smoothing the hairs , and settled back into the wing-back.  John had the feeling that the Colonel wasn't there to reminisce about his brother or utter sympathetic platitudes; he poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to the colonel.

"How may I be of assistance, Colonel?" John asked after taking the seat opposite.

Colonel Moran contemplated the contents of his glass with the air of a man bringing up a matter of questionable taste.  "Regretfully, my lord, I am here on a matter of honour." 

John's heart sank at those words.  "Indeed?  May I know more?"

In response, the Colonel pulled several pieces of paper from his pocket and handed them to John.  He recognized them as vowels with his brother's signature at the bottom and quickly added up the sums on the three slips of paper, then stared at them in disbelief.  "I make the total to be close to 40,000 pounds."

"That would be correct, my lord."

 _Forty-thousand pounds_ , John thought numbly.  How the deuce was such a sum to be raised?  The estate had been bled dry and was bringing in barely two thousand a year in rents, all of which would be needed to maintain the most basic of expenses.  The income he received from his personal inheritance would be barely a drop against the sum needed, even if he sold all of his Funds.  Even the sales he had proposed to Pickering would barely cover the amount, and there would be nothing left to pay off the rest of the debts or sustain the estate for a year till the next rents and harvests came in.  Saughton would have to be sold, there was now no question of that.

John looked over at Moran and, for a moment, he thought he saw a gleam of triumph in the man's eyes.  Then he blinked and saw only a man who had been waiting for the repayment of a debt of honour for more than six months.  "You have been very patient in this matter, Colonel, however I will need some time to acquire this sum."

"Of course," Moran said immediately, with a smile of such understanding and amiability that John felt pleased to be in his presence.  It was the one bright spot in this whole mess.  The Colonel finished his brandy and set the glass on the table.  "Shall we say the end of the month?"

That gave John two weeks, but even if it had been two months, he didn't know how he would manage it.  "Of course."

"I shall call on you at the end of the month, then."  Moran rose from his chair and John automatically stood as well.  "I will see myself out, my lord."  He bowed as he said, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Saughton."

John didn't remember what he said in response, or if he said anything at all.  All he knew was that he was looking at a debt of honour that _must_ be paid, no matter what.  But how he was going to manage that was beyond him.

* * *

 

John spent a sleepless night trying in vain to come up with a solution to this newest problem.  Going to Coutts was out of the question, as was appealing to his uncle.  He went over the list of estate assets trying to come up with something that could be sold that he hadn't thought of already.  For one wild moment, he even thought about going to a gaming hell and attempting to recoup the family fortune that way.  Only the memory of how badly he'd been burnt while gambling out in India brought him up short, but it was a hard-won battle that he fought until even the most dissolute gambling establishment had closed.  He collapsed into bed then, but his sleep was uneasy and filled with nightmares.

He rose at noon and made an attempt at a presentable appearance, then grabbed his cane and headed out of the hotel.  He had no idea where he was going although he determinedly turned away from the Thames as he had already decided that wasn't a solution.  All he knew was that he couldn't sit in the hotel and try to find a solution to an insolvable problem. 

He didn't know how long he had walked when a hansom cab stopped beside him.  "Need a cab, guv?" the cabbie called down to him in a thick Cockney accent.  John shook his head and walked on, ignoring the cab as it paced him for a few minutes before apparently giving up.  He walked for another ten minutes before the cab stopped beside him again.

"Look, I don't need - " he began, turning to glare at the jarvey only to find that it was a private carriage, not a cab.  A young Beta male who looked like a clerk or secretary descended the carriage steps and held the door open for John.

"If you would enter the carriage, my lord."

"Really," John said, tilting his chin up in what the men of his regiment would have recognized as his "don't push me" stance.  He was tired and his leg ached and he was feeling just irritated enough to want a scrap if he could manage one.  "And if I don't?"

"I wouldn't advise it, my lord.  My employer is very desirous of a few words with you, and you are far away from your hotel."

"And who is your employer?"  The Beta stared at him woodenly and John sighed.  "Fine," he said, awkwardly mounting the carriage steps. 

The young man followed him into the carriage and took the seat across from John.  John looked around at the richly appointed interior of the carriage, recalling  that he hadn't seen a crest on the door.  He looked back at the young man who had pulled out a small journal and was perusing it while making occasional notes. 

"Any point in asking where we are going?" John asked.

The secretary looked up with a brief smile.  "None at all."

John sighed and looked back out the window.  He hadn't paid any attention to his direction when walking, but now he recognized some of the streets from his visits as a young medical student and he realized with some alarm that they were heading towards Spitalfields.  He glanced back at the secretary and calculated the odds of him taking the younger man in a fight, if necessary.  John thought that he had a decent chance, for even if the other man was younger he looked soft, not campaign-hardened like John.  He braced himself to attempt escape if the situation became any worse.

The carriage stopped and the young man stepped out, holding the door open for John.  He descended the carriage steps and found that he was standing in an abandoned textile manufacturing plant.  Inside, a man stood waiting for him, leaning on an ornately carved cane.  He was dressed in a very conservative black coat and plain waistcoat with dark breeches tucked into his boots.  His cravat was tied in a simple style and overall he wore a greatcoat with furred collar that possibly cost more than John had paid for his entire wardrobe.  He looked like the least threatening man John had ever met.

"You are the Earl of Saughton?" the man asked John.

"I am.  And you are?" 

"My name would mean nothing to you," the man said smoothly. 

John narrowed his eyes.  "Is this an abduction, then?  I am afraid I must tell you that my pockets are entirely to let and you won't get much of a ransom out of my family."

The man smiled thinly.  "I know to a farthing how your accounts stand and no, this is not an abduction.  I have a business matter to lay before you, Lord Saughton."

"If this is business, I have a hotel where we might have conducted this more comfortably," John said, beginning to feel the bitter chill through his worn overcoat, which he hadn't replaced since his return to England.  "Or your place of business, for that matter."

"I hold a minor office in the government and, as this is a personal matter, it would not be appropriate for us to meet there," the man said blandly.  "As for your hotel, I would prefer to keep our meetings out of the public eye for now."

"Which means this is about something illegal, so I'll save you the trouble and say 'no' right now.  I trust your coachman can take me back to my hotel?" he said, turning back to the carriage.

"It is entirely legal, however it is a personal matter of the utmost delicacy."

John turned back and raised an eyebrow at him.  "Personal - oh lord, you're another one, aren't you?  How much does my brother owe you?"

"I have never had the occasion to meet your brother nor to engage in any form of gambling with him.  You may rest assured that my business is entirely with _you_ , Lord Saughton."  He looked past John to his secretary.  "Fetch a chair for his Lordship; I believe that his leg must be hurting."

"Don't bother," John said sharply.  "I don't intend to be here much longer, and I'll stand, thank you."

"Very well," the man said, then gestured to the room they were standing in.  "This factory was first built by one of my ancestors in the late 1600s.  They were Huguenot refugees who settled here and brought with them their silk weaving knowledge.  My great-great-grandfather was born here in England and he had both a gift for manufacturing and for marketing.  He married an English girl, changed his last name to Holmes, and set about expanding the family business, as did his descendants.  By the time of the silk industry downturn in the mid-1700s, my grandfather had moved to Derbyshire and expanded into the cotton and wool trades.  And he had become one of the wealthiest men in the cloth manufacturing trade."

"As fascinating as all this is," John interrupted, "I fail to see what it has to do with me."

"I am getting to that, Lord Saughton," Mr. Holmes (John presumed) said.  "His fortune assured and his mills doing well, my grandfather now turned his attention  to his only son, Siger.  It was the dearest wish of his wife that their son become a gentleman, and after her death my grandfather set about making that happen.  My father was educated by the finest private tutors and instructed in the ways of a gentleman, then he made the Grand Tour where he made a great many friends among scions of the nobility.  While in Paris, he fell in love with Violette Vernet, the daughter of the renowned French painter.  They married and continued the Tour together, ending in Italy where I was born.  After a few years, concerned about the unrest in Europe, they made their way home to England, where Siger's connections abroad had garnered him a position in politics."

"Still not seeing where I fit into this."

"I am coming to that!" Holmes snapped, then drew in a deep breath.  "In addition to myself, they had a daughter, who died as a young woman, and another son.  Once back in England, my father formed the ambition of achieving titles for one if not both of his sons.  We were educated at a public school - Shrewsbury, although Father would have preferred Harrow.  Upon leaving Shrewsbury, I went up to Oxford and then became employed in the government, where I am progressing upward in a quite satisfactory manner."

Deciding that the only way out of this encounter was through, John asked with what politeness he could muster, "And I suppose your brother is doing the same?  Or has he kicked over the traces and returned to the manufacturing trade?"  He looked around at the dilapidated building.  "If you have brought me here to invest in a scheme to renovate this place, you have backed the wrong horse."

"As I stated earlier, I am well aware of your financial difficulties; in fact, what I propose will alleviate your financial hardship and allow you to retain your family estate."

John was sceptical.  "It will?  How?"

"I want your name, my lord."

"My _name_?"

"To put it more clearly, it is your title that I want.  For my brother."

"Your brother? Why the devil would he want my title?  Not that I could give it to him, in any case.  Unless - " An unwelcome thought crossed John's mind.  "Are you acquainted with my uncle, Alexander Carnegie?"

"I have had the pleasure of doing business with Mr. Carnegie on a few occasions," Holmes acknowledged.  "He has quite an excellent opinion of your character, which is of the utmost importance to me.  To speak frankly, we would not be having this conversation if you had been cut from the same cloth as your brother.  I have no intention of supporting a wastrel who brings his family to a stand-still by gross mismanagement and extravagant gambling."

"Was there a compliment in there?  It's difficult to tell."

"My brother, as you will have guessed, is an Omega.  Quite a shock when he Presented, as we haven't had one in the family since my ancestors left France.  Before that, we had expected that he would make his mark in one of the sciences, perhaps achieve a knighthood."  Holmes sighed.  "Well, we mustn't mourn what can't be helped.  To be blunt with you, Lord Saughton, when Mr. Carnegie first proposed the match, I wasn't mad for the scheme for I am very fond of my brother.  I could not be easy in my mind at the idea of marrying him off to someone on the hang-out for a rich prospect.  However, Mr. Carnegie said that you didn't like the notion any more than I, which gave me a good opinion of your character.  I took the liberty of discovering the full extent of your financial difficulties, I have talked with a few of your former comrades, and I have decided that you will suit my brother very well."

"You are very obliging, sir, but - "  Once again, John turned towards the waiting carriage.

"Hear me out before you make a decision, my lord," Holmes said, holding up his hand to stop John.  "I am prepared to pay off all the debts on the estate, to purchase the mortgages, and to settle your brother's personal debts - including the one to Colonel Moran." 

John was startled.  "How did you - "  Then a wave of embarrassment went through him at the thought that his brother's gambling debts might be public knowledge.

"You needn't worry - that knowledge is not public but I have my sources.  In addition to clearing the books, shall we say, I am prepared to dower my brother with a significant annual income that should make it possible for you to turn your estate around, as well as provide for my brother."

"I'm sure that you are, but I am not interested."

"Think it over before you come to a final decision," Holmes said.  "Sleep on it and discuss it with your man of business." 

He held out a card and John took it.  He glanced at the name, _Mycroft Holmes_ , and saw that an address was listed in Russell Square. 

"You will no doubt wish to meet my brother and discuss the matter with him.  It would hardly do if you were to take an instant dislike of each other.  Dinner at my home on Friday - shall we say eight?"

John made a last attempt to say no, feeling like a man swimming against an unrelenting tide, but found himself sitting in the carriage on the way back to the hotel before he knew what was happening.  He turned to the secretary who was looking at him with undisguised amusement.

"Is he always like that?" John asked.

"Oh, no, my lord," the young man said, grinning widely now.  "Sometimes he's _absolutely_ set on getting his way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDENDUM: For those interested (and who have asked in email), James's gambling debt would be equivalent to 1.6 million pounds in today's money. So you can see why John is in an utter panic at this point.


	6. Part I: Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets an old friend who gives him some sage advice, and then renews a previous acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicized section is from Chapter Eight of "Watson's War", for those who haven't read that story or would like refreshing without flipping back to it.
> 
> Some of the dialog in the next few chapters is from Sherlock BBC, courtesy of the [transcript by Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html), who should be made a saint for her hard work to provide this for writers. I have paraphrased a few lines to adhere more to the style of this period, but for the most part those words are those of Moffat and Gatiss.

On arriving back at the hotel, John ordered a hot bath and a bottle of whiskey to be delivered to his room.  While soaking in the first and drinking the second, he wondered how his life had become so complicated.  He went over the details of the strange encounter with Mycroft Holmes, felt his pulse quicken at the memory of the dangerous location, and contemplated his left hand holding the glass.  That hand had developed an intermittent tremble during the past few months but now it was absolutely steady.  He took another sip of whiskey.  His feelings about the encounter gradually changed from revulsion to amusement as John had always been one to see the funny side of things.  And of all that he had thought might happen in his life, being kidnapped and proposed to hadn't been one of them.

John had thought he would sleep better that night but the dreams came again, of waiting behind the battle lines and watching the smoke from the guns, of standing at the breach in the walls, hands red with the blood of his soldiers.  He woke with a cry on his lips and, finding himself in his bed with no viable future ahead, he turned his face into his pillow and wept. 

He woke the next morning feeling listless and with no better clue of how to resolve his financial quandary than the day before.  Not inclined to wander the streets for a second day, John repaired to the Criterion Bar and was staring into the bottom of a glass when someone tapped him on the shoulder.  He turned around to find Mike Stamford beaming at him, and for the first time in months John felt a genuine smile on his own face. 

"John Watson, I thought that was you!" Stamford exclaimed.  "Although you are thinner and browner than I recall.  What have you been doing with yourself?"

John was embarrassed that he hadn't thought to tell Stamford he was in London, and touched that someone was glad to see him without wanting anything in return.  "I'll gladly tell you, but it's not a short story.  Will you join me for lunch at the Holborn?"

Stamford agreed and they set off in a hansom cab.  Once they were settled at a table with their drinks, John summarized his adventures since he'd left London for India, then ended with the death of his brother and his return to London.  Stamford was amazed by his tales of India and St. Helena, and so sympathetic about the change in his circumstances that John found himself unloading his most pressing woes as well. 

Stamford listened in silence and when John was done, he asked, "What do you plan to do, then?"

John made a helpless gesture.  "What can I do?  I can't even rejoin the regiment while this debt of honour hangs over me."

"And your sister won't help? Or your family?"

"Harry has her own worries; I can't burden her with mine as well.  And the only suggestion my uncle had was to marry a rich Omega."

Stamford looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Maybe you should."

"Not you, too."

"Why not?  You wouldn't be the first.  It's done all the time."

"Come on, Stamford; I have a bad leg, an encumbered estate, no prospects, and more debt than income.  Who would want to marry me?"

Stamford gave him a funny look.  "You're the second person to say that to me this week."

John raised his eyebrows.  "Who was the first?"

"You remember that Omega who was in the labs the last time you were at St. Bart's?  He still comes 'round to pursue his studies, and yesterday he was bemoaning the fact that he wants to take lodgings but can't live alone.  He said that marriage was his only option if he could find someone who would marry him."

John remembered the man and said so, but waved aside Stamford's offer to re-introduce them.  "I'm not that desperate yet."

Stamford frowned over this reply. "You shouldn't reject the idea immediately. There are many people who marry for reasons other than love."

"I'm not looking for love," John said shortly, his heart contracting painfully at the memory of his lost love.

"If you're not love-bit, then why the Cheltenham drama?" Stamford shook his head as he picked up his drink.  "You're in the devil's own mess and you owe it to yourself to take whatever honourable method of coming to rights that you can.  If you don't at least look at the option fairly, you're less of a man than I thought."

That stung and John cut short their luncheon with claims of another engagement.  However, he couldn't help thinking over Stamford's words as he sat brooding in his rooms that night, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand.  Was he being missish about the matter?  If he couldn't wed Mary Morstan, did it really matter who else he married?  He shuddered at the thought, but should such a visceral reaction take precedence over his mind telling him that it was the logical choice to make?  He had been raised with the knowledge that balancing the privileges of his rank were equal responsibilities, although he had never before been called upon to make a substantial sacrifice.  If he whistled down the wind the best chance he'd had so far of righting his estates, simply because he had formed a lasting passion for a woman he could never hope to make his wife, how would he ever be able to face his family?   If there was a way that he could do this by his own exertions, he knew that he would do so as he had never shirked hard work or privation.  Could taking this unknown Omega to marry be as difficult as nursing diseased soldiers in a completely foreign land? 

Before he could change his mind, John went to the writing desk and penned a note accepting Mycroft Holmes's dinner invitation. 

* * *

 

Two days later, dressed in the proper evening attire of long-tailed coat, white waistcoat, black breeches and silk stockings, and carrying his cane, John set off in a hackney-coach for Russell Square. 

He had never been to the area as it had been built within the last decade, while he was out of country with the Army.  It was on the former location of Bedford House and he was aware that this was now the habitation of the upper middle class rather than the nobility.  John cared very little for appearances, having spent too many years living in rough lodgings, but he was pleasantly impressed by the look of the buildings on the square that surrounded a lovely garden. 

The coach pulled up in front of a large terraced house as a footman sprang forward to open the coach door, and John was bowed in by a stately butler who seemed even more top-lofty than his own.  The interior of the house was decorated in a tastefully restrained style, although he was a bit startled by the sight of a large armoured knight in the dining room as he was led up the stairs to the drawing room.  Mycroft Holmes was standing before the fireplace, attired in correct evening wear although he also sported a formal wig in the style of most politicians.  He moved forward with an affable smile on his face to shake John's hand.

"Welcome, Lord Saughton!  You are very prompt.  Alas, I cannot say the same for my brother, although he will join us shortly."  Mycroft pressed him into a chair, adding, "You should have allowed me to send my carriage for you rather than taking a hack, my lord - we will certainly send you home in it.  Butters, send round to the stables and tell them to ready the carriage for later."

John protested against this but resigned himself as he was firmly overridden, and he accepted a glass of what was quite possibly the best sherry he had ever tasted.  He and Mycroft made desultory conversation about politics and the latest on-dits of Society while John tried not to look at the clock on the mantle.  He wondered just how much of a dandy this Omega was that it took him so long to prepare for dinner, and then wondered if he was even more reluctant for the match than John.  A sudden feeling of sympathy for this unknown young man welled up and John determined to find a way to speak to him in private, to make sure that he wasn't being coerced into the marriage. 

"Of course, you'll be taking your seat in the House of Lords," Mycroft began, then paused as a young man in morning-dress swept into the room.  He frowned.  "Sherlock! You aren't properly dressed - did you forget that we have a guest for dinner?"

The young man scowled and John was surprised to recognize the young Omega he'd seen at St. Bart's years earlier.  "Boring," he replied in a surprisingly deep voice.   "Your fortune hunter isn't interested in what I'm wearing, just what is under it."

Mycroft's face twisted with displeasure.  "Your manners are deplorable."  He glanced over at John and said, tightly, "Lord Saughton, I apologize for my brother.  If you do not wish to be introduced to him, I will understand."

"We've already met," John found himself saying as he rose from his seat. "Although Mr. Holmes might not recall the occasion as it was several years ago."

 

_The student working at the lab table looked up with such a piercing look in his eyes that John felt as if he had been pinned to a specimen table.  "Portugal or India?" he asked._

_John frowned.  "Sorry?"_

_"Which was it?" he repeated.  "Portugal or India?"_

_"Portugal," John replied.  "How did you know that about me?"  
_

_The young man picked up his coat and donned it, stuffing his cravat in his pocket as he said, "I know that you're an Army surgeon and you've been invalided home from France, probably a shoulder injury although you are favouring your leg in a way that says you believe it weak although it wasn't injured.  You are staying alone at the moment although you have family that has visited recently, one older child and more than one substantially younger.  You are from Scotland but you have remained in London, partially due to your health but mostly because you find the country dull and your family duller.  Your brother has a drinking problem that is causing problems with his wife; you are worried about him but prefer not to take sides - possibly because you dislike your sister-in-law.  You have recently been offered another position with a regiment that is being posted at a considerable distance - possibly the Americas but more likely India.  You should take it, by the way; you'll end up walking with a cane otherwise."  
_

_He nodded to Stamford briefly, then strode out of the room without a look back.  
_

 

John saw the younger Holmes's eyes widen with surprised recognition.  "The army surgeon with Mike Stamford at St. Bart's," he said and then frowned.  " _You're_ the Earl of Saughton?"  His eyes flicked quickly over John.  "Of course you are.  You recently came into the title following the death of your brother although you haven't decided whether to resign from your regiment.  Your finances are desperate, hence your presence here tonight, although again you haven't decided whether to accept my brother's offer.  Partly this is because you believed that I was an unknown quantity and you were worried that I was coerced into marriage - as if my brother could force me to do anything against my will - but mostly because you dislike the idea of selling yourself."

"Yes, Sherlock, we are all impressed with your observational skills," Mycroft said drily.  "Lord Saughton, may I present my younger brother, Sherlock, and may I also apologize for his impertinent - "

"That was - _amazing_ ," John interrupted, staring at the younger man.

Sherlock looked so surprised that he couldn't speak for a moment.  "Do you think so?"

"Of _course_ it was.  It was extraordinary; it was _quite_ extraordinary."

Again, Sherlock looked surprised.  "That's not what people normally say," he replied, uncertainty in his voice.

"What do they say?" John asked, curious.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched.  " 'Piss off.' "

John laughed and Sherlock grinned in return, then glanced at his brother who John belatedly realized was watching them.  Mycroft said in a voice conveying deep weariness, "Sherlock, may I present John Watson, the Earl of Saughton?  And do at least _pretend_ that you have some manners."

Sherlock's face abruptly shuttered; he drew himself to his full height and gave John a bow precisely correct for his station.  "Delighted to meet you, Lord Saughton.  Have you been long in town?" he said in an affectedly bored tone of voice that John instantly hated to hear.

John cocked his head and met Sherlock's eyes.  "I think you can tell me _exactly_ how long I've been in London," he replied in challenge and was delighted to see the light return to their depths.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but they were interrupted by the entrance of Mycroft's secretary.  "Excuse the intrusion, Mr. Holmes, but this just came from the Home Office.  They said it was important."

Mycroft took the missive and glanced at the outside of it before turning to John.  "I apologize, my lord, but I must step away to my study for a few minutes to take care of a matter of state."  He looked back at his brother.  "Sherlock, if you would entertain our guest until I return?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, then turned back to John as Mycroft left the room.  "You've been in London less than a week," he said.  "And you have questions."

"When I met you the first time, you said 'Portugal or India?'.  How did you know?"

"I _saw_ ," Sherlock replied.  "Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military but your familiarity with St. Bart's said doctor, so an army surgeon.  Your face and hands are tanned indicating that you've been abroad, and where would an army doctor acquire such a tan?  India or Portugal, obviously."

John nodded as he followed along with the other man's reasoning.  "That is really quite incredible."

Sherlock shrugged.  "Most people look but do not observe."

There was a loud banging on the door downstairs and Sherlock swung around abruptly, then strode to the window.  "There's been another murder."

"What?" John asked, bewildered by the abrupt change of subject.  "Where?"

"Near Wapping Street, I'll warrant."  He swung back towards the door just as a silver-haired man strode quickly into the room.  "There's been a fourth," Sherlock said to the man.  "What's different this time?"

The man paused and looked around the room, seeing John for the first time.  He was dressed in a rough woollen jacket and brown trousers with short sturdy boots, clearly a worker of some sort.  "Sorry to disrupt your party."

"Never mind that," Sherlock said impatiently.  "What's new about this one?"

The man turned his attention back to Sherlock.  "You know how they never leave a note?  This one did.  Will you come?"

Sherlock hesitated.  "Who's the coroner?"

"Anderson."

He scowled.  "Anderson won't work with me.  I need a _competent_ physician to assist me."

The man shrugged and repeated, "Will you come?"

"Where?"

"Pear Tree Inn, off Cinnamon Street."

Sherlock nodded.  "I'll follow shortly."

The man nodded and went back down the stairs, then out the door to a waiting cab.  Sherlock whirled away, shouting for his coat and leaving John standing alone in the drawing room.

John stood for a moment, unsure of what he should do.  Both his hosts had left the room and he was uncertain if either would return.  Should he go?  Or should he wait for one to return and then take his leave?  John took a hesitant step towards the door and then grimaced as the fire of sudden pain went through his leg.  He cursed under his breath for a minute before becoming aware that someone was standing in the doorway.  He turned and saw Sherlock, wearing a fashionable great coat that probably cost more than the estate rents for a year and pulling on a pair of expensive leather gloves.  His eyes were coolly assessing John.

"You're a doctor."

"Yes," John replied, frowning as the man already knew that.

"An army doctor."

"Yes.  As you already said."

"Any good?"

John gritted his teeth, doubting that Sherlock meant any insult by that.  Or maybe he did.  " _Very_ good."

"You've seen a lot of injuries, then, and violent deaths." 

"Yes, of course.  Enough for a lifetime."

Sherlock tilted his head, clearly cataloguing that response.  "Care to see some more?"

John could suddenly hear the sound of distant gunfire, smell the sulphurous smoke in the air, and his pulse quickened in response.  "God, yes!"

Sherlock smiled widely at that, spun on his heels, and strode out the room.  John followed quickly, shrugging into the coat the butler held open for him.  That reminded him of the reason for his visit and he paused.

"What about your brother?"

"Damn my brother!" Sherlock replied and plunged out the front door, calling for a cab. 

John cast a helpless look at the butler who said, in bland tones as if this was an every day occurrence, "I will inform Mr. Holmes that you and Mr. Sherlock have stepped out."

"Thank you, Butters - " John began, only to be interrupted by a shout from the street.

"Come along, John!" Sherlock demanded impatiently.  "The game is on!"

John grinned and buttoned his coat against the cold as he dashed down the stairs and into the waiting hansom cab.

 


	7. Part I: Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Game is On!

Once seated in the cab opposite Sherlock, John realized that this was the first time he'd ever been alone with an Omega.  Most of his life at University and in the Army had been spent in the company of Alphas or Betas.   Of course he'd been to balls over the years with Omegas also in attendance, carefully chaperoned.  However, as he was a younger son with few prospects, the match-making Mamas had steered their charges clear of him.  While he was in the army, his conquests had been restricted to Betas of both sexes as no parent in their right mind would allow a soldier near their Omega offspring.   He wondered what Mycroft Holmes would say when he heard about this adventure and then had to hide a grin; _no one_ would ever think of Sherlock as a helpless Omega who needed to be sheltered. 

To cover the silence that had fallen, John said, "That man - is he a Runner?"

"Lestrade?  No, he's an Assistant Surveyor with the Thames River Police for the quays on this side of the river."

John frowned slightly.  "I thought he said something about a body at an Inn, not the Docks."

"Lestrade is also responsible for maintaining the peace along the riverside.  The residents know him and his constables, so they tend to call on him when there's trouble.  He's completely incorruptible."

"Ah," John said, nodding in understanding.  The appalling state of crime in London and the lack of a dependable force to prevent them was daily trumpeted in the papers, and the Bow Street Runners were inadequate for an entire city.  "Why did he want you, then?  You're not a magistrate, nor a constable - are you a thief-taker?"

Sherlock's lip curled.  "The most corrupt of all.  If they don't know the perpetrator of a crime, they create one.  No, I am something else entirely, something new.  I'm a consulting detective."

"I've never heard of that."

"Of course you haven't; I invented the job and I am the only one in the world."

 _Does your brother know?_   was on the tip of John's tongue but he didn't say it.  He doubted that there was much that happened that Mycroft was not aware of.  Besides, it wasn't his concern.

"And what does a consulting detective do, then?" he asked instead.

Sherlock leaned back into the corner of the cab, and John felt as if he was being assessed for his reaction.  "When those in law enforcement are out of their depth, which is always, they call upon me and I put them on the right scent.  I take private clients as well, people who are in trouble about something and want a little enlightenment.  I listen to their stories, apply my particular skills, and more often than not, solve their difficulty."

"How?" John asked, then knew without need of response.  "What you did earlier, with me.  How you knew - that's what you do."

"As I said, I _observe_ while most people do not."

"The first time we met, you also said several things about me.  About my family.  You probably don't remember - "

"I never forget important events and information," Sherlock said immediately.  "I said that you were living alone, which I knew because the coat you were wearing had acquired some damage while you attempted to put it on without aid; if you had family with you, they never would have let you go off in such a state.  You were favouring your left shoulder which indicated that you'd been shot.  Your recent encounter with small children was betrayed by the state of your boots, which showed small fingerprints from one or more children at the toddling stage.  However, your right sleeve showed that a taller child had been pulling on it - quite vigorously, in fact - and not likely to be an adult with that level of impatience.  You should hire a valet, by the way; the state of your wardrobe is truly appalling."

John laughed. 

"Did I get any of it wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"You were right that I dislike my brother's wife, and that they had visited me with their small children.  However, it is my _sister_ who has the older child and it is my sister who has the drinking problem, which has caused problems with her wife, although she is making an effort to control her drinking."

Sherlock scowled.  "A brother _and_ a sister.  There's always something."  He looked over at John, at the cane he was carrying, and his frown deepened.  "You didn't take the position with the distant regiment?"

"I did - went out to India, as a matter of fact.  As for this," he said, tapping the cane against his leg.  "The blasted thing got a bit banged up when I was shot and it acts up from time to time, don't know why."

A look in Sherlock's eyes told John that he knew the answer but at that time the cab came to a halt and Sherlock turned his attention elsewhere.  John tried to tell himself that he wasn't disappointed.

Sherlock sprang down from the cab.  John followed as quickly as he could and found that they were standing outside of the Pear Tree Inn, a shabby-genteel sort of boarding house typical for this part of London.  A woman sat on a stool outside the inn, her face buried in her hands, sobbing loudly as she was comforted by several other women.  A small knot of men stood to one side, muttering among themselves as a constable dressed in the uniform and cap of the River police took down their names for the inquest.  Another constable was guarding the entrance to the inn but he merely tipped his hat to Sherlock and allowed them to pass. 

At the top of the stairs they were stopped by a dark-skinned Alpha woman who glared at Sherlock as they approached.  "Why're you here, Hob?"

"I was invited by Lestrade," Sherlock replied. 

"And the swell cove?" she asked, jerking her head in John's direction.  "Got a keeper now?"

"Of sorts.  Lord Saughton, may I present Constable Sally Donovan, Surveyor Lestrade's most loyal subordinate?  Sally, this is John Watson, the Earl of Saughton, who incidentally was a surgeon with the Peninsular Army."

Donovan scowled.  "Don't try offering me Spanish coin, Mr. Holmes.  Lestrade may be betwattled but you won't catch me out."  She moved back against the wall to allow them to pass.

"Awake on every suit, aren't you, Donovan?"  Sherlock stepped past her and then turned back.  "Good to know that Coroner Anderson isn't pining away at home while his wife is away visiting her family, isn't it, Sally?"

Dovovan's cheeks darkened and her scowl deepened.  "Don't know what you're implying - "

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock said, "merely commending your charity in looking after others." 

Sherlock swept through the doorway she'd been guarding and John followed, with Donovan at his heels.  He had a moment to look around the room quickly before his attention focused on the body.

She was lying face down, her arms outstretched on the bare wood, her face turned towards the doorway.  Under the fingers of her right hand was something scratched into the wood.  He could tell by the lines on her face and the greying strands mixed with auburn that she wasn't a young woman, and her style of dress was more in keeping with a matron than a prostitute.  Kneeling by her side with a notebook in hand was a weasel-faced man while Lestrade stood over him, and the Surveyor looked up as they entered.  He looked relieved at the sight of them.

"Landlady says that her name was Jenny Wilson; she found the body when she came up to air the room next door for a new lodger, the door to this room being left wide open.  She called the innkeeper next door and he raised the Hue-and-Cry, then sent the Boots off to fetch us.  That would be about six this evening.  I took a look at the scene and address, then called on you while Donovan fetched Coroner Anderson here."

The weasel-faced man looked up from the body and scowled at the sight of Sherlock.  "What is _he_ doing here?" he demanded of Lestrade.

"I asked him to come, Anderson," Lestrade replied.  "We're not getting anywhere on our own."

"You're not suggesting that this prostitute's murder is related to the other three?" Anderson protested.

"Four bodies, all on sites related to the Ratcliffe murders?  How could they not be?"

"For once, Lestrade is right," Sherlock said, prowling around the body, staring intently at various details of the body and the room.  "You might get farther as a coroner if you listened to him, Anderson."

"She wasn't a light-skirt," John found himself saying, then flushed when all three men turned and stared at him.  He shrugged. "I was a surgeon with the Army and saw a fair number of whores.  Her clothes are impractical for working the trade, and of decent quality.  She would have sold them before selling herself."

"And who are you, then?" Lestrade asked, frowning at him as if just realizing he was in the room.  "You were at Russell Square - damn it, Sherlock!" he said, swinging around to glare at the man.  "You can't just bring along anyone you like!  We're not a bloody Punch-and-Judy show!"

"I told you that I needed a competent physician to assist me.  Unlike Anderson here, Doctor Watson actually has a medical degree and has served as a Regimental Surgeon for ten years."

"Eleven," John corrected, then flushed when Sherlock looked over at him.

"Eleven.  So what can you tell us about the cause of death, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock asked.

John slowly moved forward under the disapproving eyes of the coroner, leaning heavily on his cane as he bent over to check the woman's pulse and look in her mouth.  The nails of her right hand had been torn down to the quick scratching out what appeared to be the letters "s e a" and her clothing was intact.  As a member of the Army, he'd seen enough atrocities done to civilians to know that she hadn't been raped.  "No blood or sign of trauma, and by her colour I would say she was asphyxiated.  Could have been drunk, but I don't smell any alcohol.  Unlikely to have been a medical condition as she lived long enough to do that," he said, pointing to the letters.  "At a guess I'd say poison."

" 'A guess'," Sherlock repeated, his lips curling slightly at the words, "but nevertheless correct.   Lestrade, this woman is another of your poison victims."

"Yeah, well, I'd worked that out for myself, thanks," Lestrade said shortly to Sherlock.  "Anything else you can tell me?"

"Not much," Sherlock replied and then ignored Donovan's derisive snort to add, "Other than the fact that she was a Beta and Irish, the widow of an army lieutenant, childless, had recently lost a family member but was not on good terms with her parents, and paid for her upkeep by her needlework.  Her murderer had hired her to repair some white shirts and administered the poison when he came to pick them up."

"How could you possibly know all that?" Anderson scoffed.

Sherlock pointed to a chair sitting in the corner by the window with a small table and a basket full of cloth next to it.  A partially used candle was set on the table, and beside the candle was a pincushion and a skein of white thread.  "That chair is used for hours every day, based on the wear of the cushions, and it is placed optimally for someone sitting to work by the light from the window.  The type of candle in the holder is known for its production of an even light, essential if one is working on something requiring good light during the evening hours, but it has been used sparingly, so it is for work, not reading.  Therefore she was accustomed to working for long hours over something that required good light and sewing implements.  As for the white shirts, there are several needles of varying sizes in the pincushion, but the only one threaded is of the gauge for sewing on fine cloth and has white thread.  However, there are no items in the top of the work-basket of that colour or texture.  So the murderer took them with him, which he would only have done if they were of some significance to him."

"That's brilliant," John said, impressed, and Sherlock looked over at him with a slight frown.  "Sorry."

"As for the rest," Sherlock said, pointing towards the bed table, "there is a small portrait of a man in a military uniform with a mourning band on the frame and she wears a wedding band.  However, there are no pictures of children, nor items belonging to a child or young person."

"And her being Irish?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock picked up a book and envelope that had been lying on the floor by the bed.  "The book is in Irish Gaelic and so it this letter.  Some of the words of the letter have been smeared by tears, so bad news.  As the death of her husband wasn't recent, it is a family member, a sibling most likely.  If she had been on good terms with her parents, she would have returned to them upon the death of her husband instead of supporting herself, so why would she have cried over their deaths?"

There was silence throughout the room and Sherlock looked around.  He stepped over to John and leaned close.  "Was that not a good thing to say?" he asked John quietly.

John looked at him in surprise and saw that Sherlock was sincere in his question.  "A bit not good," he said quietly in return.  "One can mourn the death of a family member without being close to them."

Sherlock returned his look for a long moment and John could see that he understood.  He nodded and turned back to Lestrade.  "What is interesting are these letters she scratched out with her last moments.  S-E-A."

"Isn't it obvious?" Anderson asked.  "Seaman - a sailor.  Her killer was a sailor."

Donovan looked skeptical.  "A sailor who wears white linen shirts?"

"Maybe a ship's officer?" John hazarded.  "Or a gentleman-friend - perhaps she altered her late husband's shirts for him?"

Sherlock gave them all an exasperated look.  "What is it like in your funny little minds?"  They turned to look at him.  "Of course he isn't a sailor!  The real question is why did she wait until her dying moments to scratch out those letters, and what was she so desperate to let us know."  He looked around the room.  "Where did you put her Bible?"

"What Bible?" Lestrade asked.

"The one that was by her bed.  The one that this letter was sitting on.  What have you done with it?"

Lestrade looked at Donovan who shook her head.  "There wasn't a Bible."

"There must have been," Sherlock said impatiently.  "Look at the bed-table! It was underneath this book and letter!"

"Maybe she didn't have one," Anderson said.  "Not everybody does."

"Anderson, don't talk out loud - you lower the intelligence of the whole street.  Of course she had a Bible.  She has the both the Anglican Book of Common Prayer and the Irish translation of it beside her bed and the latter has been well-used; that tells us she was raised in the Church of Ireland and that her faith, however misguided, was important to her.  She has made note of several scripture passages - most likely from last Sunday's sermon at whatever church she attended - but she would need a Bible for reference.  So where is it?"

John watched as both Lestrade and Donovan glanced around the room as if expecting the item to jump out at them. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "The murderer took it with him. Obviously.  But why?  What was so important about that one book?"

"Perhaps he had given it to her and it had his name inscribed on the flyleaf?" John said, trying to think about the family Bible at home. 

"Good but wrong," Sherlock replied, "but at least he has a closer answer than the rest of you lot.  The prayer book was sitting on top of the Bible, which is how it was knocked to the floor, so the Bible was larger - a family heirloom, perhaps, which could contain a family tree."  He looked around at the others, a delighted look on his face.  "Don't you see?  The killer has finally made a mistake!"

"Are you saying that the murderer was related to the victim?" Lestrade asked.  "How?"

"That is what we have to determine," Sherlock said, walking toward the doorway.  "Question the landlady and find out what she knows about her tenant: where she came from, her maiden name if possible.  If she doesn't know, perhaps someone in her late husband's regiment might or, as a last resort, look for a record of the marriage with the Registrar General.  Once you know that, send an inquiry to the clergyman in her home town and see what you can learn about her family."

"But that could take weeks!" Lestrade said, aghast.

"Then you'd best get started."  Sherlock disappeared out the door, then stuck his head back in.  "In the meantime, I will need all the information you have on the previous three murders.  Good-night, Lestrade.  Coming, John?"

Lestrade swore impressively for a moment in a way that John hadn't heard since his army days, then turned to snap at Anderson, "Finish collecting what you need for the inquest.  I'll send my men up to help move the body."

Feeling in the way now, John quietly slipped out the door only to find that the hallway was deserted.  He looked back and forth along it, as if Sherlock was playing at Hide-and-Seek.

"He's gone."  John turned around to see Donovan leaning against the door-frame, arms crossed over her chest.  "He just piked off.  He does that, you know."

"Right." John turned back towards the stairs with a sigh, hoping it wouldn't be too difficult to get a cab in this area at this time of night. 

"You're not his friend."

John turned back with a frown.  "Sorry, what?"

"He doesn't have friends.  So who are you?"

"I'm - " John paused, uncertain what to say in reply.  Not a friend, for they hadn't known each other more than a few hours.  Not affianced, for that had yet to be determined and possibly Mycroft Holmes would withdraw his offer after this evening's work.  "I'm nobody.  We've just met."

"A bit of a warning, then: stay away from him."

"Why?" John asked defensively.

"Y'know why he's here?  He don't get a farthing for his help, not like a proper thief-taker.  He likes it, that's all, and the odder the crime the better.   One day, it'll be him that's puttin' a body on the ground."

"And why would he do that?"

Donovan shrugged.  "Because he's a Rum Duke and he's touched in the head."

"Donovan!" Lestrade called from inside the room.  "You heard what Holmes said.  I want to know everything about this woman: her name, where she went to church, any regular visitors.  And send someone to look at those records when the Registry opens in the morning."

"Yes, Guv!" Donovan replied as she gave John a final warning look, then went back into the murdered woman's room.

John watched her go for a moment, then turned and limped down the stairs and out to the road.  The constable still stood guarding the door but the landlady was gone, no doubt to the inn next door to regale her neighbours with the tale over a pint or two, and he hoped that Lestrade's people got to her before the beer did.  John's stomach grumbled and he thought longingly about a pint and something to go with it.

"We haven't got all night so do stop wool-gathering, John."

John swung around and spied Sherlock leaning out of the window of a hansom cab.  "You didn't leave."

"Why would you - oh.  Sally.  Of course."  Sherlock cocked his head, his sharp eyes scanning John rapidly.  "What else did Constable Donovan say?"

John squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.  "She said that you enjoy this.  Odd murders and such."

"And I asked if you'd care to see more deaths, and you said yes."  Sherlock opened the door to the cab.  "It occurred to me that I caused you to miss your dinner and I know someone who owes me a favour.  Coming?"

John shook his head ruefully and, just for a moment, wondered what he was letting himself in for. Then he climbed into the cab.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me [here on Tumblr](http://dkwilliams.tumblr.com/)


	8. Part I: Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock introduces John to someone else important to him. John finally gets fed. And proposed to.

After the hansom cab deposited them on Upper Baker Street, John looked around him in confusion at the row of Georgian terrace houses on both sides of the street.  They were clearly new, built since the last time he'd been in London, and were far less imposing that the Russell Square houses had been.  He wondered what exactly they were doing there, particularly as Sherlock had mentioned going some place to dine. 

"Where are we?"

Sherlock stepped up to one of the doors in the middle of the block and rapped the knocker sharply.  "Baker Street.  221, to be precise."

John frowned.  "This is a private residence?"

"Obviously."

"And we are here because - ?"

"The tenant, Mrs. Hudson, owes me a favour," Sherlock replied.  "A few years ago, her husband was sentenced to be executed."

"And you prevented her husband from being executed?" John guessed.

Sherlock gave him an amused look.  "Oh, no; I ensured it."

John was debating whether to be amused or appalled when the door was opened by an attractive matronly woman.  "Sherlock!" she cried with every evidence of delight as she embraced him.  "Where have you been, you horrid boy?  You left your experiment for me to tidy away!  I had to leave the windows open for hours to clear the smell."

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson.  I had anticipated returning before it decomposed entirely."  He brushed a kiss over her cheek.  "Any chance of supper?  My companion is quite famished."

"For you, Sherlock, dear, anything," she said fondly, releasing him.  "Lord knows you don't eat enough to keep a bird alive."  She looked past Sherlock and smiled at John.  "Come in, dear!  Are you a new friend of Sherlock's?"

"John Watson," he replied, uncertainly following Sherlock into the front hallway.  "I'm - er - "

"The Earl of Saughton," Sherlock said nonchalantly as he removed his coat.  "Mycroft wants me to marry him."

"Isn't that lovely!" Mrs. Hudson hung up Sherlock's coat and held out a hand for John's; he hastily slipped out of it and handed it to her.  "An Earl?  Wouldn't know it to look at you, but there!  My first gentleman was a Marquise and he looked just like a farmer."  She turned back to Sherlock after hanging up John's coat.  "Supper will be ready in a trice.  You'll want to show his Lordship the lodgings while I fetch the sherry."

Sherlock nodded and briskly mounted the stairs while Mrs. Hudson bustled down the hallway.  John hesitated, then decided to follow Sherlock and slowly made his way up the stairs to the first landing.  Sherlock was waiting at the top and he opened the door with a flourish, gesturing for John to enter. 

John frowned at him.  "Why are we here?  We can't possibly impose on Mrs. Hudson at this hour - "

"Nonsense.  You heard her: she is delighted to stuff food into unsuspecting recipients.  As for the time, before she married Mr. Hudson she was the principal dancer with the Royal Ballet, so she is accustomed to late hours.  In the meantime, I would like to know what you think of this place."

Giving in to the inevitable, John went through the open door and found himself in a spacious sitting room.  His first impression was of a largish room decorated in a comfortable if cluttered style.  Two large windows let in the winter sunshine and a fireplace promised a cheery warmth on cold days.  Two comfortably stuffed chairs stood on either side of the fireplace while across the room a large sofa covered with a cheery throw looked just the place for a lazy afternoon nap.  A table overflowing with papers sat between the windows, and in what was clearly intended to be the dining area a large table was covered in chemistry equipment. 

"It's very nice.  A bit cluttered but..." 

"Oh."  Sherlock glanced around, as if seeing the clutter for the first time.  "Obviously, I can tidy up a bit...."  He began straightening the piles on the desk, then picked up a number of envelopes on one of the chairs and fixed them to the mantle with a large knife.  "Sit here, if you'd like."

John found the armchair to be amazingly comfortable and stretched out his aching leg with a sigh.  "So this is yours, then?"

"Mrs. Hudson allows me to use this space for my Work, however I am unable to move into these lodgings permanently without a chaperone or access to my Funds."  Sherlock looked around in frustration.

"Sherlock, the mess you've made!" Mrs. Hudson scolded as she entered the room carrying a tray with drinks.   "I'm not your housekeeper yet, you know."  She turned to John, offering him a glass, and he took it gratefully, sipping at a superb sherry that he suspected Sherlock had acquired for her from his brother's cellar. "There's bedrooms on the second floor as well, and enough space on the third floor for a nursery suite, with a privy along here and on the ground floor as well.  All the crack, as they say!"

A bit bewildered, John said, "Really?"

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Hudson said with pride.  "One of my former gentlemen was the architect - such a dear about fitting it out in the best style.   Mind you, I wasn't all certain about the privy inside, but so much better than chamber pots, don't you think?"

John was unable to think of anything to say to this, torn between memories of rudimentary facilities on campaign and the antiquated privies at Saughton.  Fortunately, Sherlock came to the rescue, saying that he thought he smelled smoke and Mrs. Hudson hurried down the stairs.

John turned a bewildered look on Sherlock.  "What exactly is happening here?"

Instead of replying, Sherlock turned to lean his back against the fireplace mantle, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied John.  "How do you feel about the violin?"

John blinked.  "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.  Would that bother you? Potential spouses should know the worst about each other," Sherlock gave John a smile so obviously false that it made John wince internally.

"I had the feeling you were completely opposed to the idea of marriage to me," he said cautiously in reply.

"There are worse options."

John stood abruptly, chin tilting up as he faced the other man, his hands clenched into fists.  "I would prefer not to be the best of a series of bad options."

"Is the situation any different for you?  Am I not the last option you would choose?  Tell me, is the lady of low birth or inadequate fortune?"

John ground his teeth but didn't reply and didn't look away.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes, reassessing the situation, then he blinked and looked away from John. 

"Oh.  She can't give you heirs.  I am sorry."  Sherlock actually sounded sincere in his apology and some of John's ire lessened.

"Just tell me this," John said instead of something cutting about Sherlock's damnable perspicacity.  "Are you being compelled against your will?"

Sherlock snorted.  "By _Mycroft_?  I know he appears a trifle overbearing but, much as I despise admitting it, he occasionally has my best interests in mind."  He took a deep breath.  "Shall we be plain with each other, John?  My situation is intolerable and I wish to be free, of my brother and of society's restrictions.  My emotions are not engaged elsewhere - that's not really my area.  If you think...if you could bear the idea..."  He paused again.  "I am not a romantic.  I understand your circumstances and I will not expect an expression of sentiment that neither of us feels.  You are not unintelligent compared to most, and you have skills that might be of use to me in the Work.  If that is acceptable to you..."

John felt a cold fist clench about his heart and forced himself not to retreat a step although he felt the urge to run.  Or to cast his accounts upon the floor.  If he had to marry another, at least Sherlock was interesting and wouldn't expect John to lavish romantic attention on him.  The sacrifice required of him would be minimal and, as Mike had said, he had an obligation to his family. 

John took a deep breath.  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, if you will do me the honour of marrying me, I will do my best to make you happy."

"That sounds perfectly dreadful and not at all the thing either of us would prefer," Sherlock retorted.  "I shall feel free to make messes and be demanding of you and rude to everyone else.  You, in return, shall feel free to yell about said messes and ignore my demands."

Startled, John couldn't help his involuntary grin nor the laugh that followed.  Sherlock grinned back at him, a sincere one this time, and his deep laugh joined with John's. 

"There!  That's lovely to hear!" Mrs. Hudson said, coming into the room bearing a tray loaded with covered dishes.  John hurried to help her and Sherlock cleared a section of the table for them to unload the dishes onto.  And as they dined on broken meats and pasties and toasted their engagement with Mycroft's expensive sherry, John tried to feel relieved that his worries were over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me [here on Tumblr](http://dkwilliams.tumblr.com/)


	9. Part I: Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More clues are unraveled and plans for catching a murderer are hatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated over what Sherlock would call John and decided on "Lord Saughton" in public unless he is trying to rub in John's medical qualifications, in which case it would be "Doctor Watson". Using "Watson" made me feel like I was writing ACD canon which is not the feeling I am trying to invoke. However, I decided that he would call him "John" in private/at home even if it wasn't all that common for spouses to do so because that's the kind of person he is.

Before parting at John's hotel, he and Sherlock had agreed to meet at Wapping Street Station at noon the following day.  John wasn't sure what help he could be in regard to the murders but he reasoned that anything would be better than sitting around his rooms.  Besides that, he was curious about the investigation and no doubt would be required to give information at the Coroner's Inquest.

After consuming a light luncheon, John hired a hackney coach from the Strand to Wapping Street and then took a few minutes to walk along the Docks, to get a feel for the terrain.  Even by daylight the area was rough-looking, and he was glad for the presence of the quay guards patrolling the docks.  He entered the building and, after asking for Lestrade and Sherlock, was escorted to an office on the first floor.  Sherlock was there already, pinning drawings to a map on the wall.  Lestrade was watching him intently while Donovan leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, glaring at Sherlock.

"Ah, there you are, Lord Saughton!" Sherlock said as John hesitated in the doorway.  He looked at the paper in his hands and then pinned it to the wall among the rest.  John moved closer to him and saw that some of the drawings were of buildings and others were sketches of bodies, presumably the murder victims.  All of these drawings were pinning beneath newspaper articles that appeared to be several years old.

"What's all this, then?" he asked, gesturing at the newspaper articles.

"Press coverage of the Ratcliffe Highway murders," Sherlock said absently.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock looked over at John in surprise, then nodded.  "Of course.  In December 1811 you would have been where?"

John thought back.  "Winter quarters in Portugal, near the Spanish Border.  Why?"

"Because in December 1811 there was a series of heinous murders here in Wapping."

Sherlock pointed to one of the locations on the map.  "On the night of December 7th, Timothy Marr, his wife, infant son, and apprentice were found bludgeoned to death in his shop on Ratcliffe.  Twelve days later, at a tavern in Gravel Lane, an innkeeper and his wife and barmaid were killed in the same manner."

"Did they catch the murderer?" John asked.

Sherlock made a face.  "Five days after the second murders, they arrested a man who was blamed for them, although he didn't fit the description of the few witnesses.  A flawed investigation from start to finish."

"Oi!" said Lestrade indignantly.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in his direction.  "Oh, please!  It was your predecessor who was in error, not you, Lestrade. You may be an idiot about most things but even you could tell the difference between a large man with a limp and a short, slender man with no physical infirmities."

"Oh, thank you for that!" Lestrade retorted and Donovan came off the back wall, bristling visibly.

"And I suppose you know who really did it," she snapped. 

"Obviously," Sherlock sneered at her.  "Hart and Ablass were much more likely suspects but the incompetents in charge of the investigation - "

"Incompetents!" Donovan fumed.  "Easy for you to say that, ten years after the event!"

"What happened to that man?" John asked, trying to avoid the shouting match he could see coming.  "The one accused of the murders?"

Sherlock glared at Donovan for a moment longer but, as Lestrade was giving her a quelling look, he turned to John.  "Conveniently, John Williams was found hanging in his jail cell on the day he was to be questioned in court, an apparent suicide.  Suicide, my arse!" he said, directing this toward Donovan.  "Even you should be able to see through that!"

Donovan lunged forward, stopped by Lestrade.  John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him back muttering, "Don't," in a warning tone.  Trying to divert his attention, John turned him back to the wall.  "So what do these new murders have to do with that?  It's been, what, ten years?"

"Nine."  Sherlock pointed at one of the drawings on the wall.  "On December 31st, Geoffrey Patterson, Captain of the barge "Mary Bee", was found dead on the grave of the Marr family at St. George's in the East Church.  There were no signs of violence and it was assumed that he had passed out following too much drink and froze to death."

He pointed to another cluster of papers close to the first one.  "Twelve days later, on January 11th, James Phillimore was found dead inside the empty shop on Ratcliffe that had belonged to Marr.  He was the clerk for the local parish of St. George's and had no reason to be at that location.  This time there was clear evidence that he had been poisoned."

Sherlock pointed to a third set of drawings.  "Five days later, on January 16th, Elizabeth Davenport was found dead in the taproom of the King's Arms Tavern, the location of the second set of murders in 1811.  She had also been poisoned.  Last night, as you know, Jenny Wilson was found dead in the same boarding house where John Williams had been lodged.  This was three days after the third murder, which corresponds with the length of time between Williams's arrest and his 'suicide'."

"Four victims found in four locations that have a direct bearing on the Ratcliffe case, and the murders at intervals that also relate to that case." Lestrade said.  "Even I can see that they are somehow related.  The question is - why these victims?  Except for Mrs. Wilson, none of the victims had any reason to be in those locations.  None of the four have any relation to that old case, as far as we can tell.  None of the four have any connection to each other, for that matter."

John pointed to the sketch of the third victim.  "This one - Davenport, wasn't it?  Anything known about her?"

"She was a Beta and a clerk at Somerset House."

"That's something, isn't it?" John asked.  "Mrs. Wilson was a Beta as well, and likely Mr. Phillimore, too."

"Excellent theory - except for the fact that Captain Patterson was an Alpha," Sherlock pointed out.

"Right then," Donovan said, stepping forward to look over the wall of clues.  "What of St. George's?  Patterson was found there, Phillimore was the amen curler, and Mrs. Wilson a parishioner."

Lestrade shook his head.  "Miss Davenport was a Methodist."

"What about Phillimore's parish before St. George?" John asked.

"I saw something about that..." Lestrade sorted through the stack of papers on the table and pulled out one.  "Thought so.  Phillimore was at a parish in Dublin.  Maybe he knew Mrs. Wilson?"

"Because everyone from Ireland must know everyone else from Ireland, it being such a small area of land," Sherlock sneered.  "Both Patterson and Davenport are from the environs of London."

"Their occupations are dissimilar," John mused.  "They come from different places.  They have no shared interests.  Perhaps they have family members with something in common?"

"We're still looking into that," Lestrade said. "Patterson had a married sister, used to live here in London but according to her neighbours she left just before Christmas and hasn't returned.  Phillimore was an only child; we are trying to locate his parents.  Davenport was an orphan, raised by her aunt and uncle who are missionaries in South Africa, so no way to speak with them."

"That could be a link, couldn't it?" Donovan said eagerly. 

"Yes, our murderer is hunting down religious adherents and poisoning them," Sherlock said sarcastically.  "Well done, Donovan; we can all rest easy tonight."

"Wait, is she right?" John asked.

"Of course not!" Sherlock snapped.  "With the exception of Mrs. Wilson, it is likely that the victims were randomly chosen, simply there when he went hunting."

"Then how do we catch him?" Lestrade asked.

"The key is Mrs. Wilson.  What have you learned about her?"

"I have someone at the Registrar's office looking into Mrs. Wilson's marriage records, should know something within the next few days." 

"That's not soon enough!" Sherlock said. 

"Be reasonable, Sherlock!  Tomorrow is Sunday; Somerset House will be closed - "

"Somerset House?" John asked, frowning.  There was something about that name...  "Hang on.  Didn't you say that Davenport worked there?"

There was silence for a moment as everyone looked around at each other, then Donovan and Lestrade dove for the papers on the table while Sherlock turned to John with an expression of delight.

"John, you are amazing!"

John flushed, feeling ridiculously pleased at his contribution.  "I didn't do anything."

"Oh, of course not, but some people who aren’t geniuses have an ability to stimulate it in others."  Sherlock turned back to his wall of clues, his eyes flicking from one paper to another as John ruefully accepted the snub to his ego.  "If Davenport worked for the Registrar - "

Lestrade pulled out a paper, bringing it over to Sherlock.  "Yes, she was a junior clerk in Records."

"Then the murderer used her to locate Mrs. Wilson."

"Sorry, how did he do that?" John asked.

"The Birth, Marriage and Death records," Sherlock said absently, pinning the new information to his wall. 

Lestrade took pity on John's confused expression as he said, "A law passed in 1812, requiring parishes to submit copies of their registers to the new Registrar's Office which is in Somerset House.  That's how we found out Davenport was an orphan; the deaths of her parents are recorded there."

"Not the coincidence it might seem," Sherlock said.  "Davenport took the position to find out the truth about her birth."

"Which was?"

"Not important to this case," Sherlock said impatiently.  "The murderer used her to locate Mrs. Wilson, possibly through the death record of her husband.  We will know how when we have copies of those records, Lestrade!"

Lestrade nodded.  "I will do what I can to hasten the process."

John turned back to Sherlock.  "What do we do next?  How do we catch this man?"

"He hasn't finished killing," Sherlock said, his eyes flicking from one item to another on the wall.  "There's something he needed from Mrs. Wilson, something Davenport either couldn't find out or refused to tell him.  That's why he needed the Bible and took the risk of killing her in her lodgings instead of at a deserted place.   If his pattern holds true, he will strike again on Monday, three days after the last murder, and it will be here."  He placed his finger on one of the marks on the wall. 

Donovan stepped closer.  "The Dolphin Pub?"

"John Williams was buried at the crossroads outside," Sherlock replied.  "The murderer will be unable to resist enacting his final murder there."

"You're certain?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock gave him a Look.  "Right."  He turned to Donovan.  "Pull together the work logs; we're going to need everyone we can spare from the Docks assigned to patrol that area on Monday."

Donovan frowned but didn't argue, merely glaring at Sherlock before leaving the room. 

"Anything else you can tell us, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.  "Any idea who his new target might be?"

Sherlock turned away from the wall, pulling on his great-coat.  "Until we have more information on Mrs. Wilson, I have no way of knowing.  I cannot make bricks without straw, Lestrade.  Contact me when you have that information."

With that, he strode out of the room.  John started to follow but was stopped by Lestrade.

"Lord Saughton, the Coroner's Inquest will be on Monday at noon.  It would be helpful if you could attend, in your capacity as a physician."

"Of course," John replied.  He made a note of the location of the inquest, then made his way as quickly as he could down the stairs to the street. 

There was no sign of Sherlock. 

John sighed and started walking towards the Docks, hoping to catch a hackney from there back to his hotel, scowling as his limp felt worse with every step.  He was relieved when a cab stopped next to him - until he glanced over at it and recognized the unmarked black carriage.  He groaned.

The same secretary he'd seen twice before descended from the carriage and held open the door for him.  John didn't bother arguing although he gritted his teeth in annoyance as he climbed up into the coach.  He couldn't help the groan of relief that escaped him as he settled on the cushioned bench and the secretary smirked as he took his place on the seat opposite.

"Where are we going this time?" John asked.  The secretary ignored him, pulling a small book out of his pocket and appearing absorbed in its contents.  John sighed and resigned himself to another uncomfortable interview with Mycroft Holmes.  He felt a twinge of guilt about leaving the previous evening, even if it had been in the company of the Omega that Holmes wanted him to marry.  Then he winced as he thought about what Mycroft might have to say about all that, wondering if he would change his mind about John's suitability as a spouse for Sherlock.  And he didn't know whether he was relieved or worried about that happening.

As before, the coach stopped in a deserted building, this time a silk warehouse, and John descended from the coach.  Mycroft was waiting for him again, and John idly wondered how many of these places Mycroft had to his name.

"You know, Mr. Holmes, you could just contact me at my hotel," John said.  "Much more comfortable for all of us."

Mycroft smiled thinly at him.  "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."

"And you are avoiding your brother for what reason?"

"Sherlock is inclined to disrupt my attempts to meet with the individuals with whom he has regular interaction.  He does love to be dramatic."

"Well thank God you're above all that," John said sarcastically.

Mycroft frowned at him.  "I have been informed that you spent last evening with my brother, first at a crime scene and then at 221Baker Street."

John sighed.  "Look, I know that it's not conventional and there wasn't a proper chaperone, although Surveyor Lestrade was at the crime scene and Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street."

Mycroft looked amused.  "You believe that I am concerned for my brother's reputation?"

"Well - yes."

"I _do_ worry about my brother.  Constantly.  However, threats against his virtue are the least of my worries."  Mycroft tilted his head and John could feel himself being minutely examined.  "You had met my brother before."

"Yes, at St. Barts, although I didn't know he was related to you.  It was a very brief meeting."

"You willingly accompanied him to a crime scene last night."

John nodded, a little puzzled as to where this was going.  "I apologize for leaving before the evening had ended - "

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively.  "I myself was called away on important matters.  What is of more interest to me is that you also went to Baker Street.  Tell me, Lord Saughton, was that your idea or Sherlock's?"

John clenched his jaw and his fists, unwilling to divulge anything to Sherlock's brother.  He drew in a deep breath and deliberately relaxed his hands.  "Why don't you ask your brother?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.  "You've met Sherlock three times, twice within the past twelve hours.  And yet you are already choosing to protect him."

John raised his chin.  "He will be my husband; of course I will protect him."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.  "Then you have settled matters between yourselves?  You have both agreed to marry?"

"You know, you and your brother should really talk to each other."

Mycroft sighed.  "We have what you might call a difficult relationship."  He drew in a deep breath.  "I am, of course, delighted at this turn of events.  We will need to discuss the terms of the Settlement.  I suggest Wednesday at eleven?"

"I believe my schedule is free," John said blandly.  "Shall we meet at another of your old warehouses, or would you prefer that I pick a deserted building of my own?"

Ignoring this flippant remark, Mycroft said, "I think that my residence would be the most appropriate.  I will bring my lawyer and I suggest you bring your man of business.  The terms will be typical ones that we can discuss then.  However, I would also be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis, outside of the dowry, in exchange for regular information about what Sherlock is up to."

"No," John said shortly.

"I haven't mentioned an amount."

"I'm not interested."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows again.  "You are very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not," John said frankly.  "Sherlock and I will be entering into marriage on very shaky grounds, and I will not add to that by spying on my husband.  If you want to know what he is doing, you will have to ask him yourself."

Mycroft frowned.  "You are not being very cooperative, Lord Saughton, considering."

"Considering that you're willing to lay down a great deal of your blunt to get me to marry your brother?"  John smiled thinly.  "Beginning to think that you made the wrong choice of partners for him?"

Mycroft looked at John again with that piercing gaze.  "You are related to five of Scotland's Solicitor Generals, several members of the Admiralty, a former Home Secretary, a former Prime Minister, the Governor of India, and most of the noble houses of Scotland."

"And so?" John said, irritated by the response.  "Sorry, but if you want to talk about family trees you'd be better off talking to my sister-in-law as I could not care less."

"And why should you?" Mycroft said smoothly.  "No, Lord Saughton, you are exactly the right choice for my brother. Possibly more right than I had originally thought.  I look forward to seeing you again on Wednesday."

He strolled towards his carriage and climbed into it while John watched, frowning.  Then, realizing that the coach was about to depart, he quickly hobbled forward.  "Wait!  You're not going to just leave me here!"

Mycroft looked out of the carriage window at him and smiled thinly.  "I believe you will find that you have other plans, although I will be glad to drop you at your hotel should you find otherwise."

At that moment, a young man wearing the scruffy attire of a street urchin ran into the warehouse, a slip of paper clutched in his hand.  "You be John Watson, guvnor?" he asked John and, when he nodded, handed John the paper.  "From Mister Sherlock 'olmes."

John unfolded the paper and saw a few words written on it:

 _Baker Street._  
_Come at once_  
_if convenient._

Underneath that was scribbled

 _If inconvenient,_  
_come anyway._  
_SH_

 

John looked down at the youth.  "What's your name, lad?"

"Wiggins, sir," he said promptly.

"Any other messages from Mr. Holmes?"

The lad scratched his head.  "Gave me a bob t'tell you 'could be dangerous'."

John looked over at Mycroft's carriage, then back down at the note.  Stuffing it in his pocket, he turned to Wiggins.  "Lead the way."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Ratcliffe Highway Murders**  
>  They were real and they were investigated by the Thames River Police. More information can be found [on the Wikipedia site](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ratcliff_Highway_murders) (yeah, I know) and the [Thames Police Museum site](http://www.thamespolicemuseum.org.uk/h_ratcliffehighwaymurders_1.html). An interesting tour if you are in London is [Mapping the Ratcliffe Highway Murders](http://www.murdermap.co.uk/pages/blog_01/blog_item.asp?Blog_01ID=256).
> 
>  **Vital Statistics in Brief**  
>  In our universe, the Parochial Registers Act of 1812 and the Births and Deaths Registration Act of 1836 were two different things. Also, the General Registrar's Office was first established in 1837 in Somerset House, which also housed other government offices. (If you want more info, check out [ World-building](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/3378902).)
> 
> In the Saughton Universe, both acts were both joined together in the "Parochial Birth, Marriage, and Death Registration Act of 1812", which meant that every district was required to submit copies of existing parish registers for the past generation (about 25 years) to London, and to send quarterly updates. This information was housed in district offices and in the General Registrar's Office in Somerset House in London. This allowed the government to generate statistics on population, life expectancy, causes of death, and in our Omegaverse it also allowed them to track the percent of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas born. 
> 
> I expect that Mycroft Holmes had something to do with this, bless his managing little heart.


	10. Part I: Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock hunt up some clues at the murder scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am combining both ACD and Sherlock BBC canon and dialogue in this chapter, particularly as nicotine patches didn't exist in this time period. As always, I am indebted to Ariane DeVere for her transcripts.

John followed the young man out of the warehouse and looked around for transportation.  A hansom cab stood waiting at the curb nearby and, blessing his luck, he started toward it.  Wiggins grabbed his sleeve, however, pulling him away.

"Don' wanta be doin' that, gov'ner, not 'round these parts," Wiggins said.  "That's how the thieving coves catch out flats, waitin' like that.  Mister 'olmes said t'catch a cab where the trade's busy."

John sighed at the thought of walking further but obediently followed the young man towards the busier cross-street.  He glanced back at the first cab, catching a brief glimpse of a thin, pale face before the jarvey whipped up his horse and drove away.  John shrugged and put the incident out of his thoughts as he whistled for a cab and directed it to 221 Baker Street.

When John entered the sitting room at Baker Street, his first thought was that a fire had broken out for the room was filled with smoke so thick that he could barely see a thing.  Only the heavy scent of coarse pipe tobacco relieved his first anxiety, even as the thick smoke made him cough.  Through the haze he had a vague view of Sherlock wearing a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, coiled up in one of the armchairs with his head tilted back and a clay pipe clenched between his lips. 

"Caught cold, Doctor Watson?"

"No, it's this poisonous atmosphere," John said shortly, making his way to the closest window to clear the place a bit.  "How much have you smoked?"

Sherlock shrugged without opening his eyes.  "It's a three pipe problem."

John snorted and made his way to the other window, forcing it open, then turned back to see that Sherlock had opened his eyes and was examining him closely.

"You've been speaking with Mycroft again," Sherlock said.

"Which your brother must have told you as your lad here found me in one of his warehouses."

"I haven't spoken to Mycroft since we left the house last evening.  I know that you were at the warehouse in Cheapside, one of a handful of places he favors for these types of interrogations, because of the type of dirt on your boots.  I know you were talking with Mycroft because your palm shows signs of having been clenched in a fist several times and, as Mycroft is the most annoying person in London, it is easy for me to deduce that he is the cause."

"That's brilliant."

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked, then sighed.  "Of course he did and you refused.  You should have accepted; you could have used the additional funds."

John stared in disbelief at Sherlock, wondering if he was serious, but the other man had turned his attention back to his pipe.  "Well?" he said after a moment's silence.  "You asked me to come.  I'm assuming it's important."

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock said and gestured toward the desk.  "I need you to draft an advertisement to be sent to every paper for print in tomorrow's edition."

"That's all?" John asked, feeling a bit irritated at having been summoned for such a purpose.  It had been a long afternoon and his leg was beginning to ache, and he fancied a bit of a rest before his dinner.  "Couldn't you write it yourself?"

"Cor, gov," Wiggins said with a laugh, making John jump as he had forgotten that the young man was still there.  "Did you see the note I brung you?  Chicken scratchin' is better than 'is writing."

"That'll be enough from you, Wiggins," Sherlock said sharply.  "Mrs. Hudson has your tea so do take yourself off until I have further need of you."

Far from being offended by this dismissal, Wiggins grinned at Sherlock and touched his cap to John, then descended the stairs while whistling a merry tune. 

"Friend of yours?" John asked, gesturing toward the disappearing youth.

"A protege of sorts," Sherlock replied absently, his gaze now turned up to the ceiling.  "He's the chief of my detective force, a half dozen little beggars who undertake my investigations where I can't venture.  They're my eyes and ears all over the city."

"Oh, that's clever."

"Lately I've been employing Wiggins on other matters as well, such as posting this advertisement - if it is ever written."

John sighed and shed his overcoat, draping it over the other chair, then sat down at the table, noting that an effort had been made to tidy its surface.  A momentary rummage through the drawers turned up some foolscap and a pencil for a rough draft, as well as an inkstand for writing out the final copy.

"I'm ready, then."

"Write these words exactly.  'Found this morning in Cinnamon Street, a letter addressed to Mrs. Jenny Wilson in a foreign language.  Mrs. Wilson or her agent may recover the item by applying to the proprietor of the Dolphin on Cable Street on Monday evening after seven.'  Have you got that?  Read it back to me."

"Half a moment," John replied as he finished scribbling down the dictated words.  He read them back and then frowned.  "Are we posting a notice for the murderer to read?"

"Not to worry, John.  I know the owner of the Dolphin and he will handle the transaction.  We will be present to observe, but the murderer will have no reason to connect us to the matter."  He turned his head to look at John.  "Copy that out several times and give it to Wiggins to deliver before we go."

"Go?  Sorry - are we going somewhere?"

Sherlock gave John an amused look.  "Surely you didn't think that I'd ask you here merely to draft that advertisement.  I did mention 'danger'."

"Oh, I don't know; writing out notes could be dangerous.  Could get a paper cut."  John grinned over at Sherlock and, to his surprise, after a startled moment the other man smiled back.  It was a genuine smile, unlike most of the ones John had seen the younger man bestow before now, and it stirred something inside of John.  To cover his sudden discomfort, John turned his attention to the copies he needed to make, peripherally aware that Sherlock had abandoned the sofa, pulling off his dressing gown and donning his coat once more.

"Where are we going?" John asked as he put on his outer coat.

"To the scene of the other three murders," Sherlock replied, throwing on his great coat and heading for the stairs, calling out for Wiggins as he descended. 

The young man emerged from the kitchen with his napkin still knotted around his neck and accepted the papers Sherlock thrust at him as well as the coins to pay for posting the advertisements.  John watched the proceedings and, once they were outside, voiced his concern about entrusting the task to the young man.

"How do you know he won't just throw them away and pocket the coins?" John asked.

"There are very few people whom I trust but Wiggins is one of them."  Sherlock hailed a cab and, as they climbed inside, said, "Now, as to the tasks ahead.  We will be investigating each site in order, although I don't expect to find much as the scenes will have been disturbed by incompetent louts tromping over them with no regard to preserving clues.  Still, we might be lucky."

 

********

 

The cemetery was the first stop and, as Sherlock had predicted, both weather and traffic had obscured any clues that might have remained. However, Sherlock insisted on examining every square foot of ground around the grave and every inch of the monument with a magnifying glass he'd produced from his pocket.  After nearly twenty minutes of scrutiny, he made a triumphant noise and held out an imperious hand to John.

"Your pocket knife, if you please, John."

John handed it over and watched with fascination as the detective scraped away a bit of dirt from a seam in the marble before producing a gold ring.

"A woman's wedding ring," Sherlock said, using his glass to study the inside of it.  "There are initials - J.H. to M.P. - and the date 1781."

John pulled out a little notebook that he had jotted down that morning's information in and he frowned as he consulted it.  "That doesn't fit.  The victim was Geoffrey Patterson and he wasn't married.  It probably doesn't have anything to do with the murder, just lost by someone passing through."

"The murderer left it," Sherlock said, surveying the scene with sharp eyes.  "The victim was found sprawled across the grave here - John, if you would play the role of the victim."

Reluctantly, for it was cold and John's coat was thin, he lay down where Sherlock indicated, grateful that at least there was no snow on the ground.  Sherlock nodded and paced about him for a moment, adjusting his limbs to his satisfaction.

"The murderer _watched_ Captain Patterson die, unlike his last victim.  It was personal, vengeance for a perceived wrong.  He was carrying the ring in his pocket and once Patterson was dead, he threw it down on the body.  It was bad luck that it bounced off Patterson's chest and rolled into the crack, where it was subsequently covered with dirt."

"So it's the murderer's initials in the ring?" John asked, sitting up.

"Or someone close to him: a parent, a sibling or cousin." 

Sherlock held out a hand to help John to his feet, then set off towards the cemetery gate at a brisk pace.  Once out on Cannon Street, it was less than 500 feet to the shop on Ratcliffe Highway where Phillimore had been found.  John looked around at the road lined by shops and pubs with cramped living areas above and thought about how a murderer could have passed unseen by so many.  However, when Sherlock led him down a dark, narrow alleyway that emptied onto a narrow back-street behind the shop, John realized that the murderer must have come in through the back door.  It was locked but not a deterrent to Sherlock who had the door open in a trice.  John followed him inside, wrinkling his nose against the smells that permeated the building.  Someone had indeed died there, their bodily functions giving way in the face of death, and the clean-up had been perfunctory at best.  John took a last breath of clean air and followed Sherlock inside, securing the door behind him. 

The building was dark inside as the windows were shuttered but Sherlock didn't seem to notice, making his way through the shadowed rooms as if blessed with a cat's nocturnal vision.  There was a small lamp set on the table by the doorway and John took a moment to trim the wick and light it before following Sherlock.  It was a dingy little place, disused and neglected, with dust lying heavily everywhere.  The only signs of disturbance were on the floor which had obviously seen the passage of many feet.  John glanced into an open door as he passed, identifying it as a bedroom, then went down the stairs to the shop proper.  There he found Sherlock crouched down, a magnifying glass in hand as he stared through it at a spot on the floor. 

"Ah, good! you have found a light.  Bring it over here, John."  He gestured at the floor in front of him.  "This is where they found the body of James Phillimore."  He scowled as he looked around the area.  "It is doubtful that we'll find anything here.  Too many spectators have passed through the area, both following the murder and at the inquest which was held here afterward.  Still, we must take a look."

Sherlock's predictions proved true and his expression was gloomy after nearly an hour's fruitless search.  They left by the front door and Sherlock hailed a cab, directing it to the King's Arms on New Gravel Lane.

"I have little hope for this location," Sherlock said with a sigh.  "A private parlor off the taproom - I wouldn't be surprised if the innkeeper has been charging a penny-a-peek for a look at the murder scene."

He was therefore surprised upon entering the King's Arms to learn that the innkeeper had locked off the parlour following the departure of the police and was reluctant to allow them entry.  Sherlock finally produced a letter signed by Lestrade verifying that he was a consultant for the Thames Police and, after carefully reading it, the man produced his keys.

"I've not touched a thing since they carried out the poor lady's body," he said as he led the way.  "Nor my people neither."  He paused with the key in the lock and looked back at them.  "My late missus was Kitty Stillwell, grand-daughter to them what was killed ten years back.  She'd have wanted justice for the lass."

"I swear that we will in no way hinder the course of justice," Sherlock said impatiently and John thought that in another moment he'd wrestle the keys away and unlock the door himself.  However, this appeared to satisfy the innkeeper for he turned the key and let them in.  He seemed inclined to linger but John had the thought to request beer and sandwiches for when they were done and the man reluctantly returned to the tap room.

"This is excellent, John!" Sherlock said, his eyes sweeping over room.  "Only a handful of people have passed through this room.  If there is anything to be found, it will be here."

On his hands and knees, Sherlock made his way across the floor, scrutinizing every inch.  Then, with a cry of triumph, he drew a scrap of paper from under the bench by the wall and held it out for John's perusal.  He held it between two fingers, careful not to damage it further, and studied it.  The scrap was clearly the bottom right corner of a larger note and he could see that it had been torn.  There were only a few words visible:

New

7 p.m.

fail me

Yours,

R.B.

 

John looked up at Sherlock.  "It wasn't a random murder.  She came here to meet someone - this 'R.B.' "

"Oh, that's clever," Sherlock said admiringly, then frowned.  " _Is_ it clever?  _Why_ is it clever?"  He paced back and forth in the small room.  "He couldn't meet her in a usual place, not if he planned to murder her - someone would remember seeing them both.  It had to be out of the way, somewhere unfamiliar, but how to get her there?  A note.  Obviously.  But he couldn't risk it being found on her, so he tore it from her hand as she lay dying, not realizing that she'd retained a scrap.  Then he made his escape out this window," he said, crossing to the window and unbolting it.  "It was still open when the police arrived.   She dropped the scrap as she died and the wind from the open window blew it under the bench there," Sherlock said, illustrating the path the paper had taken.

"That's brilliant," John said.

Sherlock turned back to John, a curious expression on his face.  "Do you know that you say that out loud?"

John flushed.  "Sorry; I'll shut up."

"No, it's....fine."  Sherlock paused and frowned, as if trying to get his bearings.  "Now, as to what the note said.  If I might have the use of your notebook - "

John handed it to him and Sherlock scrawled a few words on a blank page, erased a line, then wrote a few more.  Carefully holding the lower part of the page in his right hand, he tore away the rest then smiled in triumph.  He handed both fragments back to John who put the pieces together.

 

Meet me at the

King's Arms on New

Gravel Lane at 7 p.m.

tonight. Do not fail me

                     Yours,

                       R.B.

 

John looked up at Sherlock.  "It fits.  So 'R.B.' is the murderer - but what is his relationship to either 'J.H' or 'M.P.' on the ring?"

"That is what we have to find out, John!" Sherlock looked delighted at the prospect, his face lighting up.

John forced himself to look back down at the note.  "Wiggins is right; your writing _is_ worse than chicken scratching,"  he said with a grin.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but whether to refute John's statement or to add something, it went unvoiced.  "John!  At the window - a man!"

John turned around quickly, just in time to see the figure disappear.  "Did you get a good look at him?" he asked.

"No - we'll have to follow him!"

As he spoke, Sherlock climbed up on the bench under the window and then up on the sill, jumping nimbly to the ground.  "Come on, John!" he called back.

John swore and set down his cane so that he could tuck away the scraps of paper, then followed Sherlock out the window.  Sherlock was already at the street, looking around for their quarry and completely oblivious to the wagon bearing down on him.  Heart in his mouth, John raced forward and pulled Sherlock out of the path of the wagon.  He ignored the swearing of the cart-driver, indulging in a bit of swearing himself.

"Bloody hell, you idiot!  Look where you're going!"

Sherlock pulled away from him impatiently, looking around.  "He's getting away in that cab!"  he snapped, then his attention was caught and he pointed at a hansom cab heading up Gravel Lane.  "There!"

John started after the cab but Sherlock grabbed his arm.  "No, we'll never catch him that way."  He brought his hands up to either side of his head, his eyes closed as he appeared to concentrate his thoughts.  After a moment, he lifted his head to catch sight of the cab turning left onto Prusom.  "He's heading towards Cinnamon Street, probably to check if he left anything at the Pear Tree.  We need to get there first!"  He spun around and pointed toward one of the buildings lining the road.  "This way!" he said and took of running, with John on his heels.

What followed next was a bewildering race through the shops and alleys of Wapping as Sherlock led him on a wild chase after the cab and its passenger.  Sherlock seemed to have a mental map of London in his head as he cut through   back gardens, down alleys, and over fences.  John had no idea where he was going, concentrating on keeping the other man in his sight and on pulling in enough air to breathe.  At one point, they came up against the brick wall of a factory and John swore in frustration, but Sherlock merely pointed toward the roof.

"We go up."

"Up?" John asked but Sherlock was already running, up the exterior stairs to the roof. 

"Come on, John!"

John swore again and followed, finding himself running across the roof in Sherlock's wake, clambering over peaks and dodging round chimneys and, at one terror-inducing point, jumping across an alley to land on the roof on the other side.  Another staircase brought them back to the ground, and they burst out of Pear Tree Alley onto Cinnamon Street just as the cab rounded the corner.

"Stop!  Police!" Sherlock shouted, hurling himself into the road in front of the approaching cab.  "John, the cab door!"

Trying to catch his breath still, John opened the door and stared at the elderly man inside.  "Um, Sherlock?"

Sherlock came around to join him, staring with disbelief at the man sitting in the cab.  "No!" he shouted.  "No!"

"Not the man we wanted, then?" John asked.

The man stared at John, his eyes wide behind his spectacles.  "You are with the Watch?  Is something wrong?"

"Um, yes."  John smiled weakly at the man.  "Transport division.  Just checking random cabs.  Everything all right?  Good."  He shut the cab door and waved his hand.  "Have a nice evening."

The cab continued on its way and John turned to Sherlock.  "So.  Not the murderer."

"No," Sherlock said shortly, a scowl on his face.

Suddenly, the funny side of the whole situation hit John and be began giggling.  Sherlock stared at him as if he had gone mad, and perhaps he had.  "Chasing down alleys, over roofs," John said between giggles.  " 'Have a nice evening'?  That - that was the most ridiculous thing that I have ever done." 

Sherlock's lips twitched.  "And you invaded Portugal."

That struck John as even funnier and he barely managed to say, "Not by myself!" between giggles.

Sherlock started to laugh as well, a deep, rich sound that warmed something inside of John.  They stood there for several long minutes, laughing like madmen, until Sherlock turned to him and said, "Have you got your breath back?"

John nodded.  "Where next?"

"Back to the King's Arms," Sherlock said, his lips twitching again.  "You might want to retrieve your cane."

John stared at him in surprise, then realized that he had spent the last fifteen minutes running and leaping, and not once had his leg pained him or given out.  He found himself laughing again, this time with delight. 

"Yeah, let's go," he said finally.  "I believe that I owe you a pint, at the least."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on the Ratcliffe murders and the locations, see the notes at the end of the previous chapter.
> 
> Diana's tumblr is [here](http://dkwilliams.tumblr.com/)


	11. Part I: Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pays a visit to a reclusive friend

On Sunday, John Watson put on his full uniform for the last time and took a hired carriage south of London to Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood.

He'd obtained Major Sholto's address from the Horse Guards on his arrival in London, while he was beginning the task of resigning his place in the army.  He'd also learned that the Major had become a recluse after his release from the hospital the previous month, seeing no one but his staff.  However, John had hopes that he would be the exception.  So far, the Major had ignored his requests for a visit but John decided that Sholto would have less inclination to refuse a meeting with John standing at his front door.   Because of this, John dismissed the cab once he had arrived at the Lodge, judging that only a churlish host would turn away a man on foot.

Norwood was one of those areas that had attracted a great number of the middle class estate builders following the wars, being within an easy distance of London but far enough from the crime and high cost of the city.  Pondicherry Lodge was one such estate, sitting on its own land outside of the village of Norwood.  It was surrounded by a high wall with metal spikes along the top, a forbidding sort of place.  There was a simple wooden door set into the wall and it was upon this that John knocked once the cab had set him down.  The door swung back and a short, thickly-set man stared at him from the opening.  John judged him to have been a boxer in his previous career, and more than capable of seeing intruders off the property.

"Who're you?"

"Captain John Watson, late of Major Sholto's regiment," John replied.  "I've come to see the Major."

The man studied him, from the top of his cocked hat to the soles of his recently polished boots.  "The Major said you'd come.  'John Watson is not put off so easily as the rest,' he said."

"Did he also say that I was to be allowed entrance?"

"He did."  The man stood back from the doorway to allow John to enter, then bolted the door behind him.  "I'm McMurdo, porter here at the Lodge.  I'm to take you to Mrs. Bernstone, the housekeeper.  She and Nurse Tessa Lowe are the only other staff here."

"The Major has a resident nurse?"

McMurdo nodded and led the way along a gravel path through expertly tended gardens to a large house whose age indicated that it had been built late in the previous century.  "Wouldn't let him out of hospital otherwise, so she says.  He does well enough, though he does have turns now and again.  Hain't been out of his rooms today, not that I've seen."

John pondered this as he was turned over to a tall elderly woman who McMurdo introduced as Mrs. Bernstone.  She was less talkative than the porter and settled him in the parlor before going to inquire if Major Sholto was receiving guests.  John declined a chair, choosing instead to pace about the room.  It had been less than four months since he had last seen any of his regiment and John was anxious for word of his friends.  He was also concerned about the aftermath of the Major's accident, for the man had always been a firm supporter of the hospital staff and a good commander.  He had also been a good friend to John.

A firm step in the hallway pulled John away from contemplation of the gardens outside the window, and he turned to greet the Major as he entered the parlour.  "Captain Watson.  You're a difficult man to dissuade."

"Major Sholto.  It's good to see you again, sir."

Although John was a bad liar, over the years he had learned to mask his initial reaction to the traumatic injuries to his patients, and months away from the field hadn't negated that skill.  Part of the trick lay in not averting his eyes or letting anything but cool competence reflect on his face, and the balance was in the genuine compassion John felt for anyone who came under his care.   John knew that he had been mostly successful in hiding his shock at the extent of the Major's injuries, but he also knew that Sholto was more perceptive than most.  John didn't look away from the disfiguring burns to one side of the Major's face or the unnatural stiffness of his left arm but instead stepped forward to greet him.  His sharp salute was acknowledged, even as the Major gave him an amused look.

"Stand down, Captain.  We are both civilians now."

"It should be 'John', then, sir," he returned, looking up at his former commanding officer and extending his hand.

"James." Sholto returned the handshake, then gestured to the sofa.  "Please, be seated, John."  He turned to the housekeeper who was waiting silently by the door.  "Would you bring tea, Mrs. Bernstone, and perhaps something of sustenance?  Lord Saughton has had a long trip out here."

Mrs. Bernstone cast a disapproving eye over John, apparently not swayed by titles, then looked back at the Major.  "You won't be tiring yourself too much with visitors, will you, sir?"

"The tea, Mrs. Bernstone."

She huffed and left the room.  Sholto smiled faintly and turned to John.  "I apologize, John.  She is rather protective of me."

"So is your porter.  I was afraid I'd have to resort to fisticuffs to gain access, although I rather imagine your man would have drawn my cork."

Sholto's smile widened.  "McMurdo's rather splendid in the ring.  I went a few rounds with him myself, as an amateur, last time I was in London."  His smile faded.  "What a long time ago that seems."

John thought back to the hard marches in Nepal, the long hours in hospitals in France and India tending to the injured, the dull days on St. Helena, and felt a sense of loss as well.  "Yes.  A very long time."  He mentally shook himself.  "How are you doing, sir?  James."

Sholto looked away, out the window over the winter garden.  "As well as can be expected.  The doctors say I am healed as much as I ever will be."

"That's - good, yes?" John asked. 

"Better than Lieutenants Small and Cook," Sholto said shortly. 

"It's not your fault that they died."

"They were under my command; I was responsible for them."  A look of despair and self-loathing shadowed Sholto's face.  "The fault is ultimately mine."

John hesitated as he contemplated what he should say.  "James, perhaps it isn't healthy for you to isolate yourself out here.  The past preys too much on your mind in the long empty hours."

"And what would you have me do instead?" Sholto snapped.  "I have been forcibly retired, with a pension in gratitude for my years of service, so I am no longer fit for the only occupation I know.  I have no family, and it is unlikely that this will change in the future, disfigured as I am.  It might have been better if I had perished in that fire instead of either Small or Cook."

"No!  You may not be fit for active service, but you have knowledge you could share with younger officers," John pointed out.  "You have friends who would be delighted to spend time with you - I, for one." 

Sholto looked surprised but at that moment the housekeeper entered with the tea tray and they were both reluctant to say more in her presence. "I will consider what you said, John," Sholto said once she'd left them with their tea and sandwiches.  "Although I am not quite ready to leave my seclusion entirely."

"Then I hope you will consider a brief venture into London at the end of the month.  I am getting married shortly; come to my wedding and stand up for me."

Sholto gave him a startled look.  "You want me at your wedding?"

John nodded.  "It will be a small affair, but I would be proud to have you beside me on that day.  And I would like to introduce you to my fiancé."

Sholto frowned slightly.  "I am already acquainted with Miss Morstan, from our years in India.  There is no fault with my memory."

John felt a pang of loss at the recollection of that time.  "It is not Miss Morstan whom I will be marrying.  Considering my circumstances..."

"Ah, yes, I remember the letter from your uncle.  I had hoped that matters would turn out to be less dire than he seemed to think.  That is not the case?"

"If anything, I found matters to be much worse.  The estate is entirely bankrupt and my brother left considerable debts, including one of honour."  John drew in a deep breath, then released it and said, "I am marrying an Omega from a wealthy merchant family."

"I see."  Sholto contemplated this for a long moment.  "I must admit that I am surprised by this turn of events, but not by your decision.  You were always an honourable man, John, and never one to shirk your responsibilities, no matter how unpleasant.  I hope that this Omega is worthy of your sacrifice."

"It's a sacrifice for him as well," John said sharply, his hand tightening on the tea cup in his hand.  "He wants nothing more than to be able to live an independent life, something he is denied because he was born Omega.  It is my honour to be able to assist him, even if it is a marriage that neither of us wants." 

Sholto cocked his head slightly, a curious look in his eyes.  "I did not mean any insult."

John closed his eyes and shook his head.  "I - sorry, there was no reason for me to snap at you."  He deliberately relaxed his hand.  "How did you leave the rest of the regiment?"

Sholto accepted the change of subject.  "Tolerably well, although bored of course.  Lt. Murphy finally won a race with that nag of his."

John laughed.  "What, did he hobble the rest of the horses?"

They spent the next hour talking about the regiment and St. Helena, then about various mutual friends, before John rose to take his leave.  As he made to follow the housekeeper, Sholto called him back.

"John!"  As John turned back inquiringly, Sholto said, "Your wedding.  Let me know the date and I will do my best to attend."

John smiled at this and, as he bid farewell to the porter at the gate, decided that the visit had been a success.

 

 


	12. Part I: Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John appears at the Coroner's Inquest, more is revealed about the murder victims, and plans are put in place to catch a murderer

On Monday morning, John dressed with care in the only good set of clothing he owned and hailed a cab to take him to Russell Square to meet Sherlock.  To his surprise, he found the other man lying on the sofa in the parlour, wrapped up in his banyan over his nightclothes, his curls in disarray.  John hastily averted his eyes from the improperly clothed Omega.

"What's wrong?"  he asked in concern, worried that the Omega might have fallen ill after their extended exposure to the outdoors on Saturday.  "You're not dressed.  We'll be late for the Inquest."

"I'm not going," Sherlock said shortly.

"But - the information you uncovered!  Your testimony is invaluable to the investigation!"

"It is refreshing to know that AT LEAST ONE PERSON THINKS SO!" Sherlock said, raising his voice so loudly at the end that John winced.

"It's not my decision," Lestrade said from the other side of the room where he was attempting to straighten his cravat with the aid of a mirror on the wall.  He glanced over at John who was completely bewildered and said, "Unbound Omegas are not allowed to testify at a Coroner's Inquest or appear in Court, not even if the matter concerns them directly."

Sherlock scowled.  "Mycroft could fix that."

"No, I can't; it's the law," Mycroft said mildly, strolling into the room.  "However, the situation will resolve itself shortly, and you will be able to testify at as many grisly Inquests and sordid court cases as you like, with his Lordship's permission.  It will, thank God, no longer be my concern."

Sherlock huffed and rolled onto his side, facing the back of the sofa. 

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh, then crossed the room to Lestrade.  "Let me; you are making a complete mare's nest of that."  With a few deft hand movements, he tweaked the cravat into an elegantly simple cascade, then stepped back to survey the result.  "There.  You look a little less like you crawled backwards out of a bush." 

Lestrade smiled at him.  "Thanks.  Are you sure you don't want to accompany us?"

"Alas, no.  While I am certain that I would derive great pleasure from witnessing you in the performance of your duties, the prospect of sitting cheek-to-jowl with the unwashed masses holds no appeal."  Mycroft brushed a speck of dust off of Lestrade's lapel.   "Sherlock will meet you at the station after the inquest, if he can be persuaded to _put on his clothes_."

Sherlock made an obscene hand gesture at Mycroft over his shoulder and John hastily suppressed a laugh.

"We will be on stake-out tonight, if Sherlock's right about the murderer's plan," Lestrade said to Mycroft, both of them apparently ignoring the young man on the sofa.  John had the feeling that they had considerable practice at that.  He also felt like an intruder at a private family event.

"Then I will see you tomorrow night, Gregory," Mycroft said to Lestrade, then turned to John.  "Lord Saughton, once again I apologize for my brother's manners."

The urge to laugh disappeared, replaced by a surge of anger on Sherlock's behalf.  The Omega might be a tit at times but he wasn't a child and didn't deserve to be treated as one.  Fortunately, the footman announced the arrival of the Holmes carriage and John followed Lestrade before he could give into the desire to use his clenched fists on the elder Holmes brother.

Once they were seated in the carriage, Lestrade glanced over at John and then down at his fists.  "Mycroft means well, my lord.  He has been looking after Sherlock for many years, and it can be a difficult habit to break.  I've had experience with his protective nature myself."

John forced himself to relax and unclench his jaw.  "Right."  He drew in a deep breath and blew it out.  "I didn't realize that you were close to the Holmes family," he said in an effort to change topics.  "Is that how Sherlock started working with you?"

Lestrade smiled slightly and shook his head.  "Rather the other way around.  He wandered onto the docks one afternoon and uncovered a smuggling ring that I'd been trying to find for months.  Constable Donovan arrested him, thought he was part of the ring because he knew so much.  That didn't deter him.  He kept coming back with other tips, no matter how many times Donovan clapped him up.  Mycroft sent one of his aides to release him the first two times, then came himself the third time.  That was five years ago."

John looked at him, intrigued.  "That long?  Then why doesn't your constable like him?  He must have proved himself by now.  I've seen how brilliant he is."

Lestrade hesitated and looked out the carriage window, then back at John.  "Mycroft says you're going to marry Sherlock, so I suppose you have the right to know.  Three years ago, we raided an opium den near the docks  and found Sherlock among the clients, so insensible from the smoke that he didn't recognize any of us."

"Sherlock?  An opium addict?  Are you serious?" John shook his head, unable to believe that the other man would risk his brilliant mind like that.

"Mycroft sent him into the country for a year to recover his health, and I haven't seen any signs that he's gone back to it.  But Donovan...her father abandoned his family because of his alcohol addiction, left them to starve, and she won't trust Sherlock because of that."

"But _you_ trust him.  You put up with him, consult him about your cases.  Why?"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why."  Lestrade was silent for a moment.  "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man.  And I think one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one." 

That was considerable food for thought, and John was silent as he considered this information.  

"Should I not have told you?  If you cry off, Mycroft will bloody kill me," Lestrade said ruefully.

"What?" John looked round at him, noting the worried look on the Surveyor's face.  "Oh.  No, I won't cry off.  Sherlock's past is his own business."

Lestrade looked relieved at this.  They had arrived at Cinnamon Street by then, and John followed Lestrade into the pub next to the Pear Tree Tavern.  There were a number of men milling about the tap room, closed because of the inquest.  Donovan was recording names in a ledger and added John to the list of expert witnesses.

"Do you need to view the body again, Lord Saughton?" she asked.  "Constable Rance is preparing to take the jury members next door for the viewing."

Although not a squeamish man by any means, John could think of few things as unpleasant as looking at a three-day-old corpse.  He declined the offer and found a comfortable seat while the twelve men called upon to make up the jury followed the young constable next door to examine the body _in situ_. 

Once the jury had returned to the inn, the landlady of the Pear Tree was called upon to give testimony about discovering the body, then Lestrade gave additional details about their findings - or rather, Sherlock's findings.  John took the stand next and gave a brief description of the state of corpse and his opinion as to the cause of death.  The jury was then polled, returning a verdict of murder by persons unknown.  Coroner Anderson bound the case over to the courts of London and, after thanking the jurors for doing their duty, dismissed them.  In short order, John found himself standing at the bar in the taproom, sharing a pint with Lestrade.

"So what did you make of the ring and the note?" John asked Lestrade, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the noise of the bar's customers.  Most of the jurors were also partaking of liquid refreshment, and he could see the coroner and Donovan sitting at a table at the back of the room, heads together as they shot the occasional look in his direction. 

Lestrade frowned.  "What ring and note?"

"The ones Sherlock found at the scenes.  The ring from the cemetery and the note..."  John's voice trailed off as he saw bewilderment being replaced by anger on Lestrade's face.  "Bugger it all, he didn't tell you, did he?"

"No, he most certainly did not," Lestrade said grimly.  He downed the rest of his pint, then glared at John.  "But you are, every last bloody thing the pair of you saw, or I'll run you in for withholding evidence, and I don't bloody care if you are related to the King of England!"

"Very distant cousin," John said weakly.  "Nothing of significance!"  He shut his mouth as Lestrade's scowl deepened and then drained his own tankard.  "Well, to begin with - "

"Not here!" Lestrade said sharply.  "Too many ears listening and too many tongues ready to carry a tale.  And I'll be damned before I read about _my case_ in Langdale Pike's gossip column!"

Lestrade ushered John out of the pub, pausing to have a low-voiced conversation with Donovan on the way out.  "Any objection to walking?" Lestrade asked.  "It's less than a mile, and cabs will be scarce at this time of day.  Less chance of being over-heard as well."

Before Saturday's adventure, John would have used the injury to his leg as an excuse, but now he positively relished the exercise.  By the time they reached the Wapping Street Station, John had filled Lestrade in on the results of their investigation on Saturday, which seemed to earn him back a few points with Lestrade.

They found Sherlock sitting in Lestrade's office, his booted feet propped up on the desk while his attention was focused on a sheaf of documents.  Lestrade growled and snatched the papers away from him before knocking his feet off the surface.

"You owe me a complete written report about Saturday, along with the things you found."

Sherlock shot John a reproachful look but produced the ring and scrap of paper from his pocket, along with his own guess at the note's content, which Lestrade secured in his drawer.  "I see you've uncovered some information about Mrs. Wilson."

"Donovan and her team spent most of Saturday and Sunday tracking that down, thanks very much," Lestrade replied.  "They found her listed on the regiment's Widow's Fund - Lt. Wilson was killed at Waterloo.  That information led them to his death record, which led to their marriage lines, dated 1805 in Cork, Ireland, which gave us her maiden name - Jennifer Murphy."

He handed the marriage document to Sherlock who scanned it quickly.  "She married without her family's approval - the witnesses were soldiers, friends of the groom, no doubt.   Lt. Wilson must have been stationed at the garrison outside of Dublin and she ran away with him.  Cork is the usual disembarkation port for troops in Ireland.  Her age is listed as twenty-one and her birthplace the parish of Dublin, which would have put her birth date in 1784.  What about her parents?"

"Ran into a bit of luck there, otherwise we'd still be looking as her married name had been Anglicized," Lestrade admitted.  "Miss Davenport hadn't cleared away her records before her death, and one of the documents still on her desk was the birth certificate of Fionnbair Murphy, born in Ballymore Eustace in 1784, part of the diocese of Dublin.   Her parents were listed as Sean Murphy and Anne Gallagher, both of Ballymore Eustace."  He handed the detective several other sheets of paper.

"Sean Murphy!" John exclaimed, turning to Sherlock.  "The letters she scratched on the floor - S E A for Sean!"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed in thought as he perused the documents.  "They had three other children - a son, Liam, and two daughters, Sionaid and Saraid.  Anne and Sionaid died in 1803 of influenza.  Ah, this is interesting!  Liam died in a fire this past fall - no doubt the information Mrs. Wilson received in that letter.  Have you found anyone to translate it yet?"

"Yes, but they haven't returned the translation yet.  Perhaps by tonight."

Sherlock tossed a few of the pages back onto the desk as he scanned the others.  "Liam had no family of his own, and neither did Sionaid.  However, Saraid had two sons in Dublin, one christened Seamus in 1797 and the other named Hamish ten years later - no father listed for either, so it is presumed that she cast off the family as well, although in a less reputable manner."

"If Sean Murphy is behind these murders, he must have learned that Jenny was in London and came here to find her," John said.

Lestrade frowned.  "Fifteen years after she ran away is a bit late to seek her out - and why murder her?"

"Besmirching the family name?" John hazarded.  "Although one would think his other daughter would be a more obvious target."

"Yeah, well, apparently Mrs. Wilson wasn't wearing the willow since her husband's death," Lestrade said.  "Her landlady said she always had a gentleman friend on her leading-string, although never more than one at a time."

"She must have been a sterile Beta; no risk of a bastard child, unlike her sister," Sherlock commented absently, leafing through the remaining papers before throwing them down on the desk.  "This doesn't make sense!" he growled in frustration.  "There must be something else, something we're missing.  Lestrade's right - why would the father suddenly set about this murderous course of action?" 

He strode back over to the map, glaring at it.  "James Phillimore - who was the last person to see him alive?"

"One of the deacons.  They were working late on the parish ledgers," Lestrade answered.  "We've gone over this, Sherlock.  They left the parish hall together, then Phillimore turned back because he'd forgotten his umbrella.  Next day, his body was found in the shop."

"So Sean Murphy - if it was him - found him at the church.  Why was he looking for him?  Did you find out where Phillimore was posted before London?"

"Yeah, half a minute."  Lestrade pawed through the documents on the desk before finding one.  "He's been here at St. George's for a decade; before that he was in Plymouth for a eight years, and Dublin before that."

"Not Cork?"

"No."

Sherlock scowled.  "He should have been in Cork sixteen years ago, not Plymouth.  Unless - perhaps he was instrumental in their meeting, not marriage.  He was clearly killed in an attempt to extract information.  It didn't work - or Sean Murphy didn't get enough information - so he had to go to the records office.  He was lucky enough to meet Miss Davenport at the local pub, plied her with drinks and a father's sad tale about an estranged daughter, and convinced her to look through the records for signs of Jennifer Wilson nee Murphy."

"Hang on," Lestrade said, frowning.  "Why the pub?"

"Elizabeth Davenport was an alcoholic," Sherlock said impatiently.  "The redness on her nose and cheeks, and on her palms, wasn't caused by the poison - none of the other victims showed that discolouration.  Her hand-writing on these records indicates an intermittent tremor, getting worse throughout the day.   She undoubtedly started sneaking alcohol growing up, to combat her unhappiness at being placed with her strict relatives following the death of her parents.   As an adult, she began drinking in the evenings, in her lodgings, and escalated so that by now she has a flask secreted in her desk, to get her through the day.  Once she finishes work, she heads to the pub nearest her work for a few drinks before heading home to finish off the night.  Our murderer may have crossed her path on accident, but I will wager that he frequented that pub hoping for just such an opportunity."

"Which explains why she was willing to meet him at a pub although she was reputed to be a strict Methodist," John said.  "That's brilliant."

Sherlock gave him a side look and John bit his lip, worried that he'd embarrassed the other man.  However, Sherlock just turned back to his wall of clues, his eyes darting back and forth over the information.  "The death of his son must have been some sort of trigger, causing him to go looking for his daughters.  His actions so far seem to indicate that he is seeking vengeance, so he blames them for something.  As for the other victims, perhaps Captain Patterson assisted one of the women in their escape from home, or is the father of one of Saraid's illegitimate offspring."

"Or Phillimore!" John said excitedly.  "He was in Dublin at the right time for the first child - perhaps he seduced the girl and got her with child."

"Good idea," Sherlock said.

"Then I'm right?"

"Oh, no, you're completely wrong, but it was a fair attempt.  James Phillimore prefers Alpha males for his sexual partners - the deacon he was last seen with was his most recent lover."

"And you could tell that from, what?" Lestrade asked, exasperated, gesturing at the drawing of the victim on the wall.  "The turn-up of his shirt cuffs?  The cut of his hair?  Never mind - just tell me what this bloody bastard is going to do next?"

"He's going to be at the Dolphin tonight, or in the area immediately around it, where he will abduct his final victim and murder him or her."

"You're certain of that?"

"He has a certain fascination for the Ratcliffe murders and that is where the accused murderer was buried.  Of course he will be there."  He looked back at the wall of sketches and data.  "He will have arranged to meet his victim there."

"Don't suppose you can tell me who that is?" Lestrade sighed.  "Right.  Well, I'll have a few uniformed men on patrol, but the rest will mix among the patrons of the pub or loiter in the streets nearby."

"Just be sure that you don't alert the murderer."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.  "We've done this before, you know.  Before you came along, I've handled my share of undercover missions."

"This man is clever, though," Sherlock pointed out.  "To move as he has, to abduct and murder without arousing suspicion - I look forward to unmasking him."

"You're not going to be there," Lestrade said sharply.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.  "John and I have other business this evening."

John gave Sherlock a surprised look.  "We do?"

"The response to my advertisement, John.  Do keep up."

"Right," John said, remembering the words he'd copied out and Sherlock's plan.  They would be there at the Dolphin pub to see who answered the advertisement, no doubt to alert the police as to the murderer's identity.  John felt oddly let down by that thought, and for a few minutes he wished that they could participate more actively in the arrest.  He had to remind himself that he was no longer a soldier, and that these matters were best left to the professionals.

Still, as he followed Sherlock out of the police station and into a cab, he thought about the revolver he'd brought with him from Scotland and decided that he would bring it along that evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although ACD Holmes's drugs of choice were cocaine and heroin, I have altered them to opium here. Cocaine was first extracted in 1860, after this time period. Heroin wasn't popular until about 1898. Morphine was first extracted in 1804 but commercial production by Merck started in 1827.


	13. Part I: Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with the news of his engagement, then meets Sherlock at the Dolphin pub as they lie in wait for the murderer. Things don't work out quite as anticipated, in several ways.

The Holmes's carriage deposited John at his hotel before Sherlock continued on his way, claiming to have matters to attend to before their evening appointment.  John collected his key from the front desk and, rather to his surprise, received polite congratulations from the desk clerk.  Puzzled, he accepted them as well as a rather large collection of letters, then made his way up to his rooms.  He barely had time to remove his overcoat and hat before the hotel waiter tapped on his door, presenting him with a bottle of champagne, complements of the manager, and a salver with no less than five calling cards on it. 

A suspicion crossed his mind and a quick check of the Gazette and the Morning Post confirmed it.  Mycroft Holmes had wasted no time in sending notice of the engagement to the press, and John wondered if he was afraid that John would cry off.  For a few moments he was overwhelmed by a furious anger, but that was quickly replaced by despair.  The matter was done and, since Mycroft had probably placed the notice in the Edinburgh papers as well, by now Mary and her family had read it.  All of his hopes in that area were ended, absolutely, and all that was left was to make the best of his future.

Resolutely avoiding both the whiskey and champagne as he would need a clear head that evening, John sat down at his desk to go through his new correspondence.  There were brief notes of congratulations from Major Sholto and a few other army acquaintances, from Mr. Coutts at the bank, and some friends of his father.  Surprisingly, there were also letters from his brother's creditors, withdrawing their demands for immediate payment and subtly seeking his patronage for the future.  In addition, tailors, haberdashers, jewellers, and even coach-makers who wouldn't have given him the time of day the previous week were now flocking to beg for his custom. 

It seemed that the Holmes name was already working its magic, which he supposed was only fair recompense for his blighted hopes. 

At the bottom of the pile was a longer letter from Mike Stamford, exclaiming in delight over the sudden news and offering congratulations that John knew were sincere.  He suddenly regretted the abrupt way he had left Mike at their last meeting.  He pulled out the hotel stationary to pen a reply, taking time to thank Mike for his well wishes and asking him to stand up with him at the wedding.  John also suggested they meet for dinner later in the week.

His most pleasant task done, John now reluctantly turned his epistolary skills toward communicating the news to his family.  Even though they would have seen the notice in the paper, he owed them the courtesy of a personal announcement.  The letter to Harry was done first as it was the easiest - he knew that his sister was perceptive enough to discern the reason behind the marriage and would hold her opinions until she could speak with him privately.  He put off writing to Charlie until after the wedding so he could convey all the news at once, especially since there was no telling how long it would take the letter to get to his brother in Bermuda.  Janet was next, and he fell back on a formal and brief conveyance of the basic news, hoping that beneath the information that he was bringing his new spouse home to Saughton for their honeymoon she would read the unspoken request to remove herself to the Dower house.  He didn't have much faith that Janet was perceptive enough to understand but hopefully Clara would press upon her sister-in-law the need for a speedy removal.  A  final note to his uncle conveyed the knowledge that the financial matters were attended to and that he would bring the Settlement documents to Alex to retain for him.

Finally, after much reflection and with much reluctance, he penned a brief letter to General Morstan.  In it, he conveyed his gratitude for the General's advice at their last meeting and expressed his wish that they soften the blow as much as possible for Mary's sake.  Once he'd finished addressing and franking all the letters, he felt even more desirous of a drink or three but by then it was time to head to the pub to meet Sherlock. 

* * *

The jarvey of the hansom cab set John down at the crossroads of Cannon Street and Back Lane, after ascertaining for a second time that it was really where John wanted to go.  "Not safe 'round here, me lord, not after dark," the jarvey said earnestly.  John assured him that he was certain and well-armed, and finally the driver left.  John took a few minutes to look around the area, noting a few loungers that might be Lestrade's men as well as one or two strolling constables, and he devoutly hoped that Lestrade was otherwise occupied for the moment.  The last thing he felt like witnessing right now was a confrontation between Sherlock and Lestrade.

Sherlock arrived a short time later, jumping down from a hired carriage and sweeping John along with him into the Dolphin pub which sat prominently on the corner of the two streets.  A large, affable man with a prominent Italian accent swept over to them with cries of delight at seeing Sherlock.

"Mr. Sherlock!  You have come - it has been too long!"  He swept Sherlock into an effusive embrace.  "You are too skinny - I will cook for you tonight and you will eat!"  He released Sherlock and beamed at John.  "And this is your young man?"

"John, this is Angelo, proprietor of this establishment.  Angelo, this is my fiancé, John Watson, the Earl of Saughton."

Uncaring for propriety, Angelo grasped John's hand and pumped it vigorously.  "You are very lucky man and to be congratulated!  This man, he is brilliant.  He got me off of a murder charge."

John looked at Sherlock inquiringly and he shrugged.  "I proved to Lestrade that, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was breaking into a house across town."

"Whatever you wish to eat or drink, no charge," Angelo said expansively.  "But for this man I would have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison," Sherlock pointed out.

Not the least bit put out at the correction, Angelo added, "I would have been hanged.  So for you, the best table and a meal such as you have never tasted." 

Sherlock leaned closer to Angelo.  "Does your bartender know what he is to do?"

Angelo nodded, looking over at the bartender who cast them a cheeky wave.  "Yes, Billy knows that if anyone asks about the letter, he's to signal me and then hand it over.  Come, I have a table where you can watch without being seen."

He escorted them to a table optimally placed for viewing the bar but offering privacy as well.  "I will be back with your drinks and something to start you off."

Sherlock took a seat where he could best view the bar while John selected one where he could observe the rest of the patrons, including anyone who might approach the table.  A few minutes later, Angelo set down a tureen of soup and dishes of plover's eggs in aspic, sardines, sweetbreads, and jellies.  John, who hadn't stopped for anything to eat since breakfast as his hotel, suddenly realized that he was very hungry.  However, aware that they were there on a case and might have to depart at any moment, he hesitated.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.  "You may as well eat.  We might have a long wait."

John eagerly filled his plate from the offerings, then glanced over at Sherlock.  "Are you going to eat?"

"I ate yesterday.  I'll be all right for a bit."

John set down his fork.  "You haven't eaten today?  For God's sake, you need to eat!"

"No, _you_ need to eat," Sherlock snapped.  " _I_ need to think.  The brain's what counts.  Everything else is just transport."

John dished out a small amount of soup as well as a few spoons of the jellies, setting them down in front of Sherlock.  "Eat just a bit.  Your body needs sustenance." 

Sherlock scowled at him and then, seeing that John was not to be moved on the subject, sighed and picked up his spoon.  "Eating is boring."

"So is breathing, but both are necessary."  John dug into his own food, relishing the repast set before them, looking around the room as he ate.  "So, you come here often?"

"Yes; it's a convenient place to meet with my informants."

"Ever bring anyone here?" John asked casually.  He hadn't thought about Sherlock being courted by anyone before now - hadn't really cared, if truth be told - but he wondered just how sheltered the Omega had been. 

Sherlock looked at him sharply.  "Why would I do that?"

John shrugged.  "Oh, I don't know.  Did you ever have a beau?  Someone who courted you?"

"My brother had to bribe you to marry me, so how likely do you think it is that I have been courted or that I would have brought any such persons here?" Sherlock asked drily.  He pushed his untouched food aside.  "John, I know that you and my brother will be discussing Settlements and such, but I think that you and I should come to an Understanding of our own."

There was such a tone of seriousness in Sherlock's words that John set down his own utensils and focused his attention on him.  "All right."

"I know that there are two reasons why you are marrying me: money and children."  As John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock held up his hand.  "It's fine.  I am marrying you for mercenary reasons as well, as I told you the other night.  I desire what freedom a bound Omega can have; however, I have no desire to share a bed with you on an ongoing basis, even during my Heats."

John's face flamed at the frankness of Sherlock's words.  Despite his considerable experience in many countries and on many continents, he was more accustomed to the polite fictions and euphemisms of society.  He glanced around quickly, to see if anyone had heard Sherlock, then leaned closer so he could speak in a lowered voice. "It is not uncommon to contemplate the marriage bed with trepidation - "

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.  "I am no missish Omega to tremble in fright at your Alpha dominance.  I am quite aware of what takes place during sexual congress, however I have no desire to be a broodmare for the rest of my life.  I will not be turning out one child after another until my Heats cease."

John gaped at Sherlock, unable to form a coherent thought in the face of this speech.  "You - you won't?"

"No.  While I am flattered by your interest, I consider myself married to my Work.  In a manner of speaking.  I am not looking for a lover."

"I - " John cleared his throat and drank down half of his ale.  "I'm not asking for that.  It's fine."  Now that he'd gotten over his initial shock at Sherlock's frank talk, John couldn't help feeling relieved that he wouldn't be required to occupy Sherlock's bed on a regular basis.  Somehow, it seemed less of a betrayal of his love for Mary.   "It's all fine."

Sherlock looked a bit taken-aback by John's ready acceptance of his terms.  "Good.  Thank you."  He took a sip of his own drink then said, with a little less force, "I will provide you with an heir in due course."

John waved his hand dismissively.  "There's plenty of time for that.  No need to rush it."

"And a spare, of course."

"If you think it necessary," John said, forgetting in his relief that his current predicament was because his brother hadn't provided a living heir.  "Say, when do you think this murderer will turn up?  Getting a bit late, isn't it?"

"What?  Oh.  No."  Sherlock produced his pocket-watch and checked the time.  "He should be arriving about this time, if Lestrade's people haven't scared him off."

"Good." 

There was an awkward silence between them now, and John was relieved when Angelo reappeared shortly with a covered dish redolent of beef and spices.

"The man at the bar in the top hat?" Angelo muttered to Sherlock under the guise of delivering the food.   "He asked for the letter."

John started to turn but Sherlock barked out, "Don't turn around, John!"  Sherlock flicked his eyes up briefly, then back down at the food on the table as he breathed, "Oh that's clever."  He paused and frowned.  "Is it clever?"

"What?" John asked.  "What is it?"

"We wondered how this murderer was moving about London unseen, how he was able to gain the trust of at least two of his victims - and who moves among us without our notice?"

John frowned in thought.  "People in uniforms - constables, soldiers, sailors?  Those in service - maids, butlers, footmen?"

Sherlock beamed at him.  "Good, John!  You're wrong, but you're close."  He turned to Angelo.  "Angelo, the headless nun."

Angelo's face lit up.  "Ah, now that was a case!"

To John's surprise, Angelo suddenly pulled Sherlock up out of his chair, shouting in Italian as he shoved the detective towards the door.  "Imbecile!  Cretino!  You're drunk!"  And Sherlock was staggering and weaving, although John hadn't seen him take more than a few swallows of his drink.  John rose from his chair, abandoning his meal to follow, watching aghast as Angelo tossed the man he had claimed as friend out on the street.

"What the hell - ?" John demanded angrily, but Angelo caught him before he could go out the door after Sherlock. 

"Watch!" he said, pulling John into the shadows of the doorway so that they could observe. 

As John watched, Sherlock staggered down the pavement and blundered into the side of a hackney cab.  The driver, sporting a top hat and the driving coat typical to jarveys, jumped down from his seat to have a conversation with Sherlock who was still pretending to be drunk, and it was as if a veil had been lifted from John's eyes.

"A cab driver!"

At that moment, Sherlock suddenly abandoned his drunken pretence and had a brief, intense exchange with the cabbie before he suddenly slumped.  The cabbie caught him, shoving him up against the side of the cab as he pulled open the door and began pushing Sherlock's limp body inside.

"Sherlock!" 

Once again, Angelo pulled him back.  "It's all part of the plan, my lord.  You'll see."

"Something's gone wrong," John insisted, pulling free and rushing outside, but it was too late.  The jarvey leaped back up onto the coach's seat, whipping up his horse just as John reached them.  John caught a glimpse of the thin face he'd seen a few days earlier, and caught the derisive grin the man cast his way as he drove away with Sherlock Holmes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I have elected to go with the abduction as shown in the Pilot - mostly because there are no cell phones in Regency London, and it works in better with my plot. As always, I am indebted to the [transcript by Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html).


	14. Part I: Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson to the rescue!

John chased after the departing cab but it was no use - it was faster and he didn't have the intimate knowledge of London to be able to chase it by alternate routes, even if he had known where it was heading.  He shouted, too, hoping that someone would stop the carriage before it bore Sherlock out of sight, but instead someone grabbed him, pulling him out of the street and onto the pavement.

"Lord Saughton!  What in blazes - do you _want_ to get yourself run down?"

John tried to pull away from Lestrade, tried to keep his eyes fixed on the cab, but it was impossible and it disappeared from his sight.  In despair, he turned to Lestrade, more furious than he had ever been in his life.  "You let him get away!  I thought your men were _watching_!  They were supposed to _catch him_!"

"Catch - " Lestrade gaped at him.  "Are you saying the murderer was here and got away in that cab?"

"The damned murderer _is the cabbie_!" John snapped.  "And he's just abducted Sherlock!  He's going to _kill him_!"

"Oh, bloody hell!"  Lestrade let go of John, running his hand through his hair.  "What were the two of you doing here in the first place?  You were supposed to be staying clear!"

"That doesn't matter now," John said sharply.  "We have to find him - them - before he kills Sherlock."

"Yeah, well, that would be lovely, but we haven't the slightest idea where he's going, now, do we?"

John paced up and down the pavement, trying to think.  He barely noticed that Donovan had joined Lestrade and that they were talking about cab license numbers, about stabling and routes, because he was trying to think like Sherlock would.  Donovan hurried off, a few of the other police with her, and John turned back to Lestrade.

"This place, it was where the Ratcliffe murderer was buried, yeah?"

"John Williams, yes."

"Were there any other places associated with the murders?" John asked.  "We've seen, what, the first and second murder scenes?"

Lestrade nodded.  "And the boarding house where Williams lived."

"The grave-site of the first victims - that's not associated with the murders, is it?"

Lestrade frowned in thought.  "Well, in a way it was.  During the middle of the investigation, there was a funeral procession from the Marr's shop to the cemetery to bury the family.  Most of the residents in the area turned out for it."

John paused for a moment.  "A bit macabre, that."  He continued pacing; something was on the edge of his thoughts, trying to break through. 

"Even more people turned out for Williams's funeral procession," Lestrade added.  "They brought him on a cart with thousands of people lining the route, stopping at both the murder sites for a moment, then ending here.  They drove a stake through his heart and buried him just over there."  Lestrade pointed towards a spot in the middle of the road.

John came to a dead stop as a blinding thought struck him.  "You said 'brought him'.  Brought him from where?"

"Coldbath Fields Prison, in Clerkenwell."

"Sherlock - "  John paused and swallowed down his incipient panic at the mention of his fiancé's name, "Sherlock said that Williams never came to trial."

"No, he hanged himself in - " Lestrade stopped suddenly as well, turning to John as his face lit up.  "In prison!  He killed himself in Coldbath!  Bloody hell!  That's where the murderer must have gone!"  He grinned at John.  "Do you think this is how Himself feels when he's solved a case?"   He turned away, shouting for the rest of his men, ordering one to fetch transport, another to go for reinforcements, then turned back to John.  "Right.  We'll let you know when - "

"I'm going with you."

Lestrade shook his head.  "No, look, you'd best go back to your hotel - or to Russell Square if you'd like, we'll go there first with the news - "

John tilted up his chin and firmed his mouth into a tight line, his fists clenched.  "I won't be in the way.  I was a soldier, I'm a fair shot, and I'm armed.  I am going with you."

Lestrade threw up his hands in exasperation.  "Fine! Get in, then," he said as one of the carriages pulled up beside them. 

John climbed in, grinding his teeth impatiently at the delay as Lestrade gave directions to the drivers of both carriages.  Then, finally, their driver whipped up the horse and they were racing off into the night.

**********

The trip across London seemed to last an eternity instead of less than thirty minutes, and several times John was sure that their driver had gotten lost.  One of Lestrade's men had worked as a guard at the Coldbath Prison in the past and he sketched out a rough map of the place on a page from John's notebook. 

"He'll have to get through the gate first, that's the trick," Constable Tuson said earnestly.  "Once inside, though, he could go anywhere if he knows the place.  The shops and clerk's office will be the most private for his work, or the schoolrooms."

"What about the cell where Williams was hanged?" John asked.  "If the murderer is so set on the places from the old murders,  he'll want to do it there."

"Do we know where that was?" Lestrade asked Tuson.

Tuson shook his head.  "No, but it must have been in the Main Prison cells.  But that would be too risky, sir.  The cells are always crowded, at least two or more to every cell.  He'd be overheard."

"We'll need to check them in any case," Lestrade said.  "We'll get the prison guards searching as well, and Donovan will be bringing reinforcements."

The carriage pulled up at the prison's outer gates and Lestrade rang vigorously on the bell for the porter.  He emerged from a stout oak doorway on the other side of the gate, still pulling on his outer coat and peering through the lamp-light overhead at the bevy of police who'd descended from the two carriages. 

"What's all this, then?" the porter asked.

"Surveyor Lestrade," Lestrade said, "We need to know if anyone has come through this gate in the last half-hour."

The porter looked surprised.  "Bit late for prisoners, isn't it?"

"No, not a prisoner.  Did any of the guards or staff return after an evening out?"

"Not on a Monday night, sir.  Leaves are only issued for Wednesdays and Saturdays."

Lestrade's face fell and he turned to meet John's eyes,.  John felt his stomach plummet.  If Sherlock wasn't here, they would never find him in time.

"Only one who comes through here after hours is Old Hope," the porter continued.

Lestrade turned back to the porter sharply.  " 'Old Hope'?"

"Jefferson Hope, the last coachman here.  Drove the Governor's coach for years, had a pretty little wife and two bright young lads lived in quarters with him here.  Then he got sick a year ago, something with his heart, and lost his place because of it.  The Guv let him stay on, though, let him stable his horse and cab here - new coachman didn't want to live in."

"He drives a cab, then, this Hope?" John asked eagerly.  "Has he returned yet this evening?"

"Twenty minutes or so ago," the porter said, nodding.  "Looked almost cheerful - happiest I've seen him since his missus left him last Christmas.  Took the boys with her, she did.  He hung the moon by them; broke his heart - or what's left of it."

"Quick, man, open the gate and tell us which way he went!" Lestrade ordered.

"To the stables, same as always."  The porter quickly unlocked the gate, letting them through.  "Stables is back there through the arch, with the main prison straight ahead beyond it.  Tuson knows the way."

"Right." Lestrade divided up his men, breaking out the lanterns and issuing firearms to a few of the constables.  "You lot take the old prison buildings on the right; Tuson, you're with me - we'll check the stables and then take the guards through the left side.  You all know who we're looking for, and you know what he's done, so take no chances.  Move quickly but thoroughly - Mr. Holmes's life is at stake."

Everyone nodded and, as they hurried off, John started after Lestrade.  The Surveyor stopped, though, and turned to face him.

"Not you, my lord.  You're to wait here with the porter."

"But - "

"He might need medical attention and we don't need to be running about here looking for you as well.  And if you move from this spot, I'll have Donovan arrest you as well!"   With a last stern look, Lestrade turned and hurried after his men.

John stood for a moment, helplessly looking after Lestrade, needing to do _something_.  "Lot of help you are, Watson," he muttered.

"Watson?" The porter said, looking up from where he was securing the gate again.  "You John Watson?"  John nodded.  "I've a letter for you."

John snatched the letter from him and tore it open.  The handwriting was crabbed and unfamiliar, and the words should have frightened him but instead he was suffused with sudden hope.

 

_Vagrant's Prison_

_Come alone or he dies_

 

John looked up from the note at the porter.  "Where's the Vagrant's prison?"

The porter scratched his head.  "That's the oldest part of the prison - hasn't been used fer years, me lord.  Falling to bits, it is."

"And how do I get there?"

"Through the stable yard," he said, pointing toward the archway, "then out the gate at the far left side.  That'll take you, but you'll need a lantern to find your way."

"Right."  John grabbed one of the remaining lanterns and lit it.  Since he wasn't enough of a fool to think that Hope would let either of them go, he added, "Tell Constable Donovan where I've gone when she arrives, and any of Lestrade's men if they come back this way."  Then he hurried through the archway and the stables, into the old section of the prison.

The porter had been right about the condition of the area, as there were sections of the walls that had fallen down across the pathway and others that looked as if they might topple at any moment.  It made John hopeful about Sherlock's condition as he imagined that a man with a heart condition would have a difficult time carrying a dead weight.  His lantern cast ominous shadows on the remaining walls and rubble as he tried to get his bearings.  The cells along the inner part of the block looked to be the most intact, and at the end of the row he could see a faint light.  Cautiously, he made his way toward it, his left hand resting on the pistol in his pocket.

"Come along, Doctor Watson.  Haven't got all night," said a voice from out of the darkness.  "Not with police all about."

As John approached the end of the cell row, he saw that the door to one of the intact cells was open, the light from a lantern spilling out into the hall.  He stepped into the doorway, pausing for +a moment to assess the situation.  In the middle of the room, Sherlock was standing on a chair, his hands bound in front of him and a noose around his neck.  The other end of the noose was tied to a metal bar that ran across the cell, clearly designed as a clothing rod.  On the other side of the cell stood a man of medium height and build with glasses and greying hair, dressed in the driving coat most jarveys wore.  He looked utterly average and harmless.  In fact, the most interesting thing about his was the pistol in his hand, its barrel levelled at Sherlock.

"Come right inside, Doctor.  I'd say to make yerself to 'ome but you ain't gonna be 'ere that long - not breathin', that is."

Wary of the gun pointing at Sherlock, John slowly stepped into the cell, taking care to watch where he was stepping.  There was only one entrance to the cell and all the walls appeared intact, but the floor was littered with debris. 

"That's right.  Set your lamp on the floor, nice and careful like, and move to that corner," the man said, jerking his head to indicate the inner wall.  John did as instructed, careful to keep his right hand in the air after setting down the lantern.  The man edged in the other direction to keep Sherlock between them, his eyes fixed on John, until he stood with his back to the open doorway, blocking their escape. 

"Sherlock, are you all right?"  John asked, trying to assess the Omega without moving closer, something he doubted their captor would allow.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding a little slurred, confirming that he'd been drugged by his abductor.  Considering that he was a stumble away from hanging himself, John wished he knew how much of the drug's influence remained or that he could get a closer view of his eyes.  The drop between the chair and the floor was not much, not enough to snap Sherlock's neck, but John doubted that their captor would let him go to Sherlock's assistance, and slowly strangling to death would be an unpleasant way to die.  This would have to be a quick and decisive action then, he decided, once the man was off guard.

"You're Jefferson Hope, aren't you?" John said.  "The porter told me a bit about you.  All of this can't be good for your heart.   I'm a doctor; I could take a look at you."  With the light directly on his face now, John could see his features more clearly and he knew that this was the same man who'd been waiting outside the warehouse on Saturday afternoon.  His clothes hung on him and there were lines from pain around his eyes.  There was also a smear of blood on his cheek and spatter on his shirt, and John hoped that Sherlock had been the one to give him the bloody nose.  

Hope grinned at him.  "Don't matter.  Made my peace with dying.  You best be doin' that, too."  He pointed toward the table where the other lantern stood, next to a small glass bottle.  "Pick up that bottle."

John picked up the bottle and saw that it held a single white and red speckled pill inside.  "What's this, then?"

"Your death."

"This is the poison you made those other people take?"  Hope nodded.  "Why do you want to kill us?" John asked, aiming for a reasonable tone of voice.  "We haven't done anything to hurt you."

"That you 'aven't," Hope agreed.  "But I've got a patron, see, and 'e wants you out of his way."

"Me?" John asked, frowning.  "Why?"

Hope shrugged.  "Don't ask no questions, not that 'e would be like to answer.  As for Mr 'olmes 'ere, well, 'e's got in my way.  Stuck 'is nose in one too many pots, as it were."

"And the others?" John asked.  "Did they get in the way, too?"

"Nah," Hope scoffed.  "They weren't nothin' to me.  'Cept the first."

"Your brother-in-law," Sherlock said, and John was relieved to hear that his voice sounded stronger than before, and he seemed more alert.

Hope grinned, looking pleased at this.  "Proper genius you are, so I've 'eard.  Go on, then.  Figure it out an' maybe I'll let you 'ave the poison, same as Doctor Watson.  Easier than 'angin'."

Sherlock spoke quickly and confidently, his voice growing stronger with every sentence.  "Doctor Watson mentioned your heart, something that the porter knew and told him.  An illness, then, and given the way your nose bled earlier, most likely an aneurysm.  You are familiar with the grounds so you have worked here for years, no doubt as a coachmen to the Governor as the quality of your clothing indicates a handsome rate of pay.  However, they are also over a year old: your illness was diagnosed a year ago, and you were displaced from your job because of it, so economies had to be made.  However, you were allowed to remain on the grounds so your employer felt sympathy for you or, more likely, your family.  You had a wife - your clothes have been carefully mended in two places, however there is a tear in the knee of your trousers that hasn't been repaired so your wife has left you within the last month.  Either she didn't want to watch you suffer and die or, more likely, she disliked being the target of your fists after you took to drink.  Her name was Mary - you left her wedding band on your brother-in-law's body after you killed him.  She had appealed to her brother, Captain Patterson, to help her get away from you.  He operates a barge along the canals and waterways; he was fond of his sister and even named his barge after her, so he helped her escape, along with your sons.  You found him drinking in a bar on New Year's Eve and tried to get him to tell you where they'd gone, got him so drunk that he passed out in the cemetery and froze to death."

"Cor, you're as good as my patron said," Hope said admiringly.  "Mary left me just afore Christmas, took me boys with her, and Patterson wouldn't say where they'd gone, even when 'e lay dying in that cemetery.  Served 'im right, comin' 'tween a man an' 'is wife, an' I only wish I'd the poison then so 'e'd suffered."

"You didn't have the poison then?" John asked.

"Of course he didn't - he got that from his patron.  Do keep up, John."  Sherlock lifted his head a little more, fixing his eyes on Hope.  "The other three - they weren't your idea, were they?"

Hope scowled.  " 'E came to me a few days after Patterson died, told me 'e knew what I'd done and 'e'd see me 'ang for it unless I did a few jobs for 'im.  Some people 'e wanted done in, and 'e'd provide the means.  'E's a right cold bastard, wouldn't want to cross 'im, so I told 'im I would.  'E gives me names and places, I do the killin', and money gets put aside for me kids.  When the both of you are dead, 'e's gonna let me know where me boys are, an' the money will 'elp me start fresh somewhere."

"You're deluding yourself," Sherlock scoffed.  "You know his name, what he looks like - he can't afford to let you live.  You're just as dead as we are."

Hope scowled and levelled the gun at Sherlock.  To try to divert his attention, John said quickly, "What about the others?  You said your patron provided their names - why did he want them dead?  Why does he want _me_ dead?"

Hope shrugged.  "Don't know, don't care.  'Spect it was personal, the way 'e wanted to be there when the last two was done in.  Or maybe 'e just likes seein' women die.  'E's a cold one, 'e is."

"What's his name?" Sherlock asked.

"No one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either.  Now, enough chatter.  Time to take yer medicine, Doctor Watson."

Reluctantly, John held up the pill bottle as if studying it.  His left hand tightened around the grip of his pistol in his pocket, waiting for an opportunity to disarm or shoot Hope.

"Wait! Wait!" Sherlock said, a note of panic in his voice.  "You said that if I deduced your story, you'd let me have the poison instead of hanging!"

Hope nodded.  "That I did, and you're in luck.  I 'ave one left; kept it in case I needed it for meself."  He reached into his pocket, then frowned as he failed to find the little bottle.  "Now where did I..." 

He looked down at his coat, patting the pockets with his left hand, unaware that his right hand had dropped as well and he was no longer pointing his gun at Sherlock.  That was the opportunity John had been waiting for.  With swift and sure movements, he pulled the pistol out of his pocket, aimed, and shot Jefferson Hope in the upper right chest.  With a cry, Hope fell to the floor, inadvertently kicking the chair out from under Sherlock.  John dropped his gun and sprang forward to catch Sherlock around his body, boosting him up to keep the noose from strangling him.  Sherlock wheezed for a moment, then reached up with his bound hands to pull the noose from around his neck.

"You can let me down," he said to John, his voice rasping just a bit. 

John eased him down to his feet, then hurried over to where Jefferson Hope lay, gasping and coughing in pain.  John pulled his cravat loose and made it into a pad, pressing it against the bullet's entry point.  A quick checked verified that there was no exit wound, and he thought that with luck Hope might live to face the hangman.  If he didn't bleed to death first.

"Hand me your cravat and scarf," he ordered Sherlock, adding the cravat to the pad he was pressing hard against the wound.  He heard the sound of shouting and running feet in the near distance; either Donovan had arrived and received his message or the searchers had been drawn by the gunshot.  Without taking his eyes off his patient, he said to Sherlock, "That'll be Lestrade and his people - have them bring a cart and rouse the prison surgeon.  He'll need immediate care if he is to survive to stand trial."

Without a word, Sherlock left the cell.  John bound the scarf over the pads, tying it tight to hold them in place.  His hands were steadier than they'd been in months, he noted dispassionately.

Hope looked up at him with eyes glazed with pain.  "Why?" he asked, a note of almost childish bewilderment in his voice.  "I was gonna kill you."

"Because I'm a doctor," John said shortly.  "And because your victims deserve justice."

Hope gave a sharp, pained bark of a laugh.  "Justice!  I'll never see - a docket - just like - John Williams."

John looked at him sharply.  "He was killed, then, as Sherlock thinks?  So he wouldn't talk?"  He leaned closer to Hope.  "Tell me your patron's name and I will make sure that he faces the hangman as well."  Hope laughed again and shook his head.  "Never mind; we know who is behind this.  Sean Murphy."

"Sean Murphy's been dead nine years," Hope said.  "Died in this very cell.  Changed 'is name but they caught up with 'im in the end."

John frowned but, deciding that Hope was incoherent from the pain, didn't say anything more although he planned to tell Sherlock everything that Hope had said, to see if he could make any sense of it. 

Suddenly the cell was filled with a large number of people.  Lestrade was there, on one knee beside Hope, questioning John about the prisoner's condition while in the background he could hear Donovan issuing orders.  Four sturdy policemen appeared and, under John's direction, lifted Hope onto the pushcart they'd brought while John continued to keep pressure on the pad over the wound.  He didn't let up for a moment, walking beside the cart as it was wheeled through the prison corridors, until suddenly there was another person at his shoulder and a firm voice saying, "I'll take over now, lad."  

Reluctantly, John lifted his hands away, watching as a young man took his place while the prison surgeon barked out orders.  They all disappeared behind the infirmary doors while John stood for a moment, dazed and disoriented.  He lifted his hands to brush the sweat away from his forehead only to realize that they were covered with blood.  Hope's blood, and thank Christ for that instead of Sherlock's!

"Any place where I can wash up?" he asked no one in particular.  Donovan appeared silently at his side, gesturing towards a room across the hall.  He entered and found that it was the laundry, but there was a big tub of what looked to be fresh soapy water so he decided that would do.  He washed his hands thoroughly, then held them under the spigot as Donovan worked the pump handle to rinse them clean.  He was grimly aware that the gore was on his cuffs as well, and likely his trousers and coat.  They would all have to go, unless the hotel laundress could work some kind of miracle, and that was an expense he could ill-afford. 

"Why'd you save him?" Donovan asked curiously, handing him a clean rag to dry his hands on.  "Most would have let a man like that die, especially for touching their Omega."

John was startled; getting revenge for Sherlock hadn't even occurred to him.  "I'm a doctor," he said simply.  "I save lives when I can."

"Even a man like that?"

"Yes, well, when I'm made God, then I'll decide whose lives are worth saving and whose are not," John retorted.  He tossed aside the rag.  "Where's Lestrade?  I imagine he'll want my statement.  And did anyone pick up my pistol?"

Donovan produced his pistol from the pocket of her coat and then led the way out to the Visitor's Room which, being the largest in the prison, was where everyone had gathered.  John's eyes first went to Sherlock, ascertaining that he was all right.  The Omega looked a little unsteady on his feet and John went to him immediately, grasping his wrist to check his pulse and then checking his pupils.

"Sherlock is out on his feet," he told Lestrade crisply.  "I doubt you'll get his best till he's had a chance to sleep off whatever Hope gave him."

"Right," Lestrade said.  He sent one of his men to fetch a carriage for Sherlock, then turned to John.  "I'll need your statement as well, my lord."

"Tomorrow," John said firmly, ignoring Lestrade's protests.  One hand went to the small of Sherlock's back as he guided him toward the door; the Omega looked startled but allowed him to shepherd him out. 

Once they were in the carriage, Sherlock gave him a enigmatic side-glance.  "Good shot," he said.  John nodded, not saying anything more.  "Are you all right?"

John glanced at him, puzzled.  "Of course I'm all right.  Why?"

"Well, you _have_ just shot a man.  He could die."

"That's true."  John licked his lips, thinking back over the events.  "But he wasn't a very good man."

"No.  No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock chuckled and John found himself giggling. "Stop it," he scolded lightly.  "We shouldn't laugh - we just came from a crime scene."

"Well, _you're_ the one who shot him.  Don't blame me."

"I should blame you," John said, mildly rebuking.  "Going out there to confront the cabbie, getting kidnapped.  That's how you amuse yourself, isn't it?  Risking your life to prove that you're clever."

Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look.  "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

Sherlock smiled at him, apparently delighted to be insulted by his fiancé, and John started giggling again.  Sherlock joined in with that deep, rich laugh of his, and neither of them stopped laughing until they reached Russell Square.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if that section of the prison was in as bad shape as I've described here, but they did some extensive renovations and repairs in 1850. Also, there isn't any information on where John Williams was kept in the prison, but as he was being held and hadn't been convicted, I am assuming that he was in the "general intake" or "vagrants" section of the prison, where people were held short-term. More information on the prison can be found [here at Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coldbath_Fields_Prison).
> 
> This is a fusion between both Sherlock BBC versions of "Study in Pink", so dialog comes from both. As always, I am indebted to the [transcripts by Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/sherlock%20episode%20transcript).


	15. Part I: Chapter FIfteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some details about the case are wrapped up but there are more questions remaining. Meanwhile, John and Mycroft come to terms on the marriage contract and Settlement, and a Date is set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attitudes towards the Irish in this story are not the views of the author (heck, I was married on St. Patrick's Day!) but reflect some of the prejudices of the time. While not overt in this chapter, these prejudices will be touched on more in later chapters.

Sherlock was already at Wapping Station when John arrived the next morning, looking none the worse for his ordeal the previous day.  He had already given his statement, and after John dictated his testimony to the clerk, Lestrade pulled them both into his office.  Jefferson Hope's arraignment had been scheduled for the next day and Lestrade wanted to get the facts straight first.

"So Hope killed his brother-in-law of his own accord," Lestrade began, pointing to the information about Captain Patterson's murder on the wall.

"It was not his initial intention," Sherlock said, "but rather a spur-of-the-moment decision given Patterson's inebriation.  I suspect that Hope was a trifle disguised as well."

Lestrade frowned.  "Are you justifying his behaviour?"

"Not in the least, merely putting it into context.  Hope was not reluctant to perform the murders but he was not the mastermind behind them.  No, the details will have been laid out by his patron.  He is the one behind the curtain."

"So who is this mastermind?" Lestrade asked.  "Sean Murphy?"

"Perhaps, although Hope didn't appear to recognize the name so it is likely that he is operating under an alias," Sherlock said.

"Then what did Hope mean when he said Sean Murphy had died nine years ago in that cell?"  John asked.

"He is referring to John Williams, who was originally known as John Murphy from Ireland.  It is likely that he was originally named Sean but changed his name due to the unfavourable attitude towards the Irish," Sherlock said.  He was still staring at the crime wall.

"But it can't be the same person," John pointed out.  "There would be about thirty years difference between them.  John Williams was a young man, not the father of several grown children."

"So - no connections, then?" Lestrade said.  "Then our Sean Murphy could still be out there and Hope was deliberately trying to mislead us."

"Could our Murphy be connected to the Ratcliffe murders?" John asked.  "Or related to John Williams?  Insanity can run in family lines.  Or what if he was a relation seeking revenge for the murder of an innocent man."

"Funny way to get revenge for innocence, by killing," Lestrade said.

"Oh, will you two be quiet!" Sherlock snapped.  "I can't think for your babbling."

John's mouth snapped shut and Lestrade snorted but settled in behind the desk, sorting through the papers.  John turned to watch Sherlock who was staring at the wall as if answers would magically appear - and who knew, maybe that's how it worked, he thought.

"It's not a magic trick," Sherlock said absently.  "I study the facts and apply simple logic to arrive at the solution."

"Not everything is that easy," John replied.  "Emotions like anger, love, jealousy, vengeance - they aren't logical."

Sherlock turned to look at him.  "No, they're not."  Suddenly, his face lit up.  "Of course!  John, you are truly a conductor of light!" 

He removed the information related to Captain Patterson from the board, tossing it down on the desk.  "The first murder was the anomaly, a crime of passion committed by Hope, in revenge for the loss of his wife even though the fault was his.  The other murders showed a complete absence of passion, emotion - they were logically planned and committed, and because of that, each of the four murders and their location are of the utmost importance."

" _Three_ murders," Lestrade said.  "You discounted Patterson's."

"Four."  Sherlock scribbled down the words 'Doctor John Watson' on a piece of paper and pinned it over the location of the prison.  "John was the last target.  The question is why.   And, what is more interesting, Hope referred to him by his professional title - Doctor Watson - not his proper title of Lord Saughton.  So his patron either doesn't know about John's change in fortunes, or the reason that John was targeted lies with his medical background."

Lestrade turned to John.  "Any thoughts on that?  Patients you treated who were memorable?"

John shook his head.  "I never had any private patients, just the general ones while in training.  When I was in the army, I treated hundreds of soldiers, but none that stick out in my memory.  I will check over my journals, though, just to make sure."

"What about other medical students?  Anyone you competed with?"

He shrugged.  "No, not that I recall.  Michael Stamford and I went through training here in London; he might remember something. Before that, I was in Edinburgh - "

"No, it won't have anything to do with your training there," Sherlock said over his shoulder.

"Right, then," John said, dropping that subject.  "Mike would be the best person to ask; he probably knows where our classmates ended up as well."

Lestrade wrote that down and then looked over at Sherlock.  "Any ideas?  I'll take even wild guesses at this point."

"I never guess," Sherlock replied, turning away from the wall.  "Your best course of action will be to question Jefferson Hope, not that I believe he will give up his patron.  However, he may unknowingly give us a clue to his identity."

"The prison doctor says that he's likely to recover enough to stand trial," Lestrade said.  "I'll be able to speak with him tomorrow morning.  Will you join me?"

Sherlock made a face.  "If you schedule it late enough.  Mycroft has scheduled the Settlement talks for the morning, and if I'm not there, God knows what he'll write into the contract."

"I won't let him impose any unjust stipulations on you," John protested.

"It's _you_ that he will impose on," Sherlock said darkly.  "You don't know my brother as I."

"Mycroft's not that bad," Lestrade said mildly.

"As you are sharing his bed, you would say that."

John blinked and tried not to overtly look at Lestrade. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Don't be so missish, John.  Lestrade has been my brother's Beta-friend for years, all regular and above-board."  He turned back to Lestrade.  "We shall be available tomorrow afternoon.  Come, John."

When they reached the street, they paused in the doorway and looked out where the snow that had been threatening for days was finally falling.  John glanced over at where Sherlock was adjusting his gloves and muffler in preparation for facing the wintry weather.

"So, this is what you do?" he asked.  "Solve mysteries, catch criminals, face down death threats?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, then the corner of his mouth turned up in a hint of a smile.  "Although the abduction was new."

"Oh, well, that's good, isn't it?  Wouldn't want to get bored."  Sherlock chuckled and John smiled back.  "It's not the usual sort of hobby one expects of one's spouse."

Sherlock cocked his head, studying John's face.  "I could indulge in sports and cards, endanger my life and health with too much drink and unsafe bets such as racing the Mail with my 'mates', if you would prefer."

"No, no," John replied, still grinning.  "This is good.  Totally insane, but good."

Sherlock's smile widened.  "Excellent.  Then I will see you tomorrow."

* * *

 

John arrived at Russell Square at ten the next morning, accompanied by his man-of-business, Pickering, and Butters showed them up to the study.  John looked around quickly, gaining the impression of a large panelled room with bookcases on either side of a large window looking down on the street.  The books on the shelves looked like a mixture of old and new, several clearly used and not just for show.   Sherlock stood by the window and he didn't look around as they were announced, but Mycroft rose from his chair and crossed the room to shake hands with John.   

"Lord Saughton, welcome!"

"My man-of-business, Mr. Pickering," John said, and Mycroft shook hands with him as well, then introduced his lawyer, a young man by the name of John McFarlane.

"Will you take some refreshment before we begin, my lord?" Mycroft asked.  "My cook has provided an excellent light repast."

John accepted the offer of coffee although he refused anything more at present.  Sherlock, who was now pacing back and forth in front of the window, muttered something about Mycroft and cake that John barely caught but his brother just smiled thinly at his guests and said, "My brother will be joining us at his own insistence.  I have told him that he will be dreadfully bored - perhaps you could persuade him otherwise, my lord?"

John gave him a bland smile in return.  "Oh, I don't mind if Sherlock joins us.  It's his future we're discussing as well."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head.  "You indulge him too much, my lord.  If you continue the way you're beginning, it's clear that you'll be living under the cat's paw."

John's smile widened at that.  "I have resigned myself to that fate already."  He carried his cup of coffee over to the window and, in an under-voice that only Sherlock would hear, said, "Second thoughts?  If you wish me to cry off - "

"No, it's not that," Sherlock said impatiently.  "Lestrade was called out during breakfast to interview the prisoner while we are wasting time with this nonsense."

John tilted his head and studied his intended's face.  "You could have gone with him instead of doing this."  Sherlock made a face and John said, "Oh.  Not allowed for unbonded Omegas?"

"Prisons are not considered appropriate venues," Sherlock said sourly.  "Our delicate sensibilities might be damaged."  John's lips twitched at that and, as Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, he couldn't help bursting into giggles.  Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "You don't think that my sensibilities are delicate?"

"I know they aren't," John replied, giggling again and this time Sherlock joined him. 

"Gentlemen?" John turned to see that the others were seated around the table already.  "If you would care to join us?"

John and Mr. Pickering took their places at the table across from Mycroft and his lawyer, although Sherlock chose to settle in one of the large armchairs near the window. 

"Lord  Saughton," John McFarlane began, "we will start with the Marriage Contract and then proceed to the Settlement terms.  We have been provided with the terms of the Saughton charter and entail, and based on that, I have drawn up the terms of Succession.  To wit: first to the male Alpha heirs of your body begotten on Sherlock, second to the female Alpha heirs,  and third to the Omega heirs begotten.  Should your marriage produce no heirs, then the title shall pass to the heirs of your siblings, as provided by law."  He looked up at John.  " _Are_ there any other legal heirs, Lord Saughton?  The documents I received are unclear."

"Not at present," John replied, "and unlikely to be in future.  My late brother's surviving children are all Betas, as is my only living brother.  My sister is an alpha, as is her eldest child, but both are bound to the Dalmahoy title and her other child is an Omega.  Her wife has had difficulty with bringing children to term and there are unlikely to be others."

McFarlane nodded, making a note on his paper.  "Then the title will lapse and revert to the Crown, should you fail to have an heir, in which case provisions will need to be made in the Settlement for the support and maintenance of your widower - "

Sherlock scowled.  "There will be no need of _provisions_.  I am quite capable of providing for myself."

" - and any minor children from the marriage."

John nodded.  "There is a dower house, although my sister-in-law is now in possession of it."  He glanced over at Sherlock who was still scowling.  "Perhaps Sherlock would prefer to remain in London, should I precede him in death.  We have located a suitable residence."

"Yes - Two-Two-One Baker Street," Mycroft said, a bit disdainfully.  "Really, Sherlock.  We could do better."

"It is new and in a respectable part of the city and large enough for our needs.  And it is close to the green space that the King plans to turn into a park - for the airing of the offspring."

"Sussex Place bordering the park itself would be more suitable."

" _If_ it is ever completed, and they are no bigger than Baker Street."

"Gentlemen," John interposed.  "Baker Street seems an acceptable location to me."

"The property is currently owned by a Mrs. Martha Hudson," McFarlane said, ignoring the two brothers.  "She is amenable to the purchase of the property by Mr. Holmes, and has agreed to remain as housekeeper with a suitable wage and private rooms on the ground floor.  The property will be included with Mr. Sherlock's dowry, and upon your death will come to Mr. Sherlock as his dower house in the Settlement."

"Archaic, medieval nonsense," Sherlock muttered.

"Should Mr. Sherlock provide an heir before your death, my lord, then Mr. Sherlock is to retain the family estates as the parental trustee for the heir or heirs, with a non-interested third party acting as co-trustee with him.  You, my lord, will have the right to name the trustee, subject to Mr. Holmes's approval.  The trustee shall not be related by blood or marriage to the heir or heirs, shall be of known moral character, and amenable to Mr. Sherlock as well."

Sherlock looked pleased by this although a little surprised and he looked over at his brother.  Mycroft sighed.  "You will insist on assigning sinister purposes to my actions when all I desire is your well-being, Sherlock.  It suits neither of us if you are saddled with a co-trustee that you loathe."  Sherlock flushed and pushed himself out of his chair, striding over to the window again and looking out as if to regain his composure.

"As to financial provisions, upon your marriage, Mr. Holmes agrees to pay all the outstanding debts incurred by your brother, whether personal or on behalf of the estate.  In addition, he will purchase and hold the mortgages on the property known as New Saughton House.  I believe that you have gathered a list of the debts, so far as you know them?"

John nodded and Pickering placed a sheaf of papers, bound with ribbon, on the table. 

"In addition, each annum you will receive the income from Mr. Sherlock's Trust, currently invested in the Funds, estimated at ten thousand pounds."

"Ten - " John was stunned into silence as he hadn't any idea that it would be that much.  He stood up abruptly, pacing over to the fireplace, and braced himself against the mantle.  "That is just his Trust, yes?  No...additional moneys thrown on top?" He gave Mycroft a pointed look.

"I assure you, my lord, that it comprises the entirety of Sherlock's dowry," Mycroft said frostily.

Sherlock snorted.  "I could have told you that he would not be amenable to your bribes if you had asked me."

"Since the entire point of my...arrangement with Lord Saughton was to _avoid_ your knowing about it, that would have been counter-productive, wouldn't it?"

"Pointless, as well."

"You will forgive me for being worried about my brother when he insists on getting himself kidnapped!" Mycroft said testily.  "And at the most inopportune time, when I needed to focus my attention on the situation in Ireland.  Those blasted Irish rebels have burned down several properties near Dublin - a factory, a records office, and a church!   If we have a repeat of 1798 - but that is neither here nor there," he said, catching himself.

John ran his hand over his mouth.  "Right.  Well."  He looked over at Sherlock who was watching him intently and managed a wry smile.  "I suppose that we will be able to manage on that," he said, trying to infuse humour into the situation.  He took a deep breath and then returned to his seat.

McFarlane continued.  "The Funds themselves shall remain under the control of Mr. Holmes until Mr. Sherlock's thirtieth birthday, two years hence, at which time they will be placed in your control, Lord Saughton.  However, the principal funds of the Trust shall not be broached without the join consent of both yourself and Mr. Holmes, and upon your death, the control of said Funds shall revert to Mr. Holmes's control.  Should Mr. Sherlock present you with an heir at any time, an additional Trust shall be created on behalf of the heir as per the Will of their father, to be managed by Mr. Holmes until the child's majority.  Should your demise occur before the child attains their majority, the income from their Trust shall be allocated to the co-trustees of the child, to be used for the child's maintenance."

"Is there much more of this?" Sherlock said impatiently.  He threw himself back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Just a little more, Mr. Sherlock," McFarlane said, then turned to John.  "Mr. Holmes has drawn up a list of his requirements as part of these contracts."

"And they are?" John asked.  McFarlane pushed a sheet of paper across the table to John and he picked it up, reading them aloud.  "Item One: Sherlock is to be introduced into Society - "

Sherlock sighed.  "Boring."

" - and presented at Court."

"Oh, really, Mycroft!  So tiresome and pointless."

John glanced over at him, amused.  "Perhaps you could steal something, like you did with Lestrade's identification?  An ashtray would be useful."   Sherlock laughed and John couldn't help giggling a bit, too. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at them.  "Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"

John cleared his throat, averting his eyes from Sherlock as he attempted to be serious.  "Item Two:  Sherlock is to be provided with adequate pin money quarterly, to be drawn from the interest on the Funds."

"Adequate?" Sherlock said scathingly.  "What does that even _mean_?"

"Item Three: Lord Saughton will do nothing that will cause his husband public embarrassment, such as establishing a mistress - " John broke off, glaring at Mycroft across the table.  "Mr. Holmes, I was raised as a _gentleman_ , and I can assure you that I would never behave in such a manner!"

"You will forgive me, Lord Saughton, but I observe on a daily basis just what constitutes acceptable behaviour among _gentlemen_ ," Mycroft said drily.  "I will not have my brother humiliated in public."

John's fisted hand crinkling the page in his hand.  "You have my word.  Is that not enough?"

"I will have your signed agreement as well."

John clenched his jaw to keep from saying something he might regret and nodded instead, tossing down the paper.

"You agree to the terms, Lord Saughton?" McFarlane asked a little anxiously, his gaze going from John to Mycroft and back. 

"Yes," John said shortly.

"Then, if we are agreed, I will draw up the terms of the Contract and Settlement and bring them to your hotel for your signature?" McFarlane said and John nodded again.

"Splendid," Mycroft said, all but visibly rubbing his hands in glee.  "Then the only thing left to discuss is the wedding.  I had thought next week?  On the last Monday of January?"

John drew in a deep breath, willing away his anger at having his word questioned.  "I - yes, that would be fine with me.  Sherlock?"

Sherlock waved an impatient hand.  "The sooner the better."

"It will take a few days to obtain the license and make other arrangements," Mycroft said smoothly.  "Unfortunately, it will have to be a private affair, due to your bereavement, my lord.  The ceremony at St. George in Hanover Square, unless you have another preference?"

"St. George-in-the-East," Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft frowned slightly.  "Why - "

"I have a fondness for that church." 

John gave him a surprised look, wondering why Sherlock wanted to be married at the church near Wapping, but Sherlock merely returned a bland look. 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes but apparently he couldn't read any ulterior motive in Sherlock's choice.  "Very well.  Lord Saughton, I will obtain the special licence from the Archbishop if you will speak with the minister at St. George's?  Excellent.  The wedding breakfast to be held here afterwards, with champagne for toasting - you can rely on me to provide the best.  No dancing, of course, but perhaps a few musicians for ambiance.  As for dress, there should be enough time to have new attire fitted if we move quickly.  I will provide the directions to a tailor who has been instructed to expect you, Lord Saughton - "

"Boring," Sherlock said with a sigh, deflecting John's building ire.  "We are getting married, not planning a new invasion of France.  Who cares if there is champagne or music or dancing or - well, I do like dancing so that's a pity, but still - boring!"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.  "These details are _important_ , brother-mine."

Sherlock turned to John.  "We should elope to Gretna Green and forget all this nonsense."

John smiled, willing to release his anger.  "Marry over the anvil, yeah?  You forget, Sherlock - there is more to Scotland than Gretna Green, and Saughton is in Scotland as well.  If we were at home, all we'd need is a witness and an officiant, not even a minister.  Or I could simply introduce you as my husband to my friends and family."

"Scotland is sounding more appealing by the moment."

Mycroft cleared his throat.  "Yes, well, that is enough for today, I believe.  The rest of the details regarding the wedding can be left in my hands.  I have a bottle of Madeira prepared for our refreshment - "

There was the sound of a carriage pulling up outside and both Sherlock and John ignored the rest of the speech to go to the window.  "Lestrade," Sherlock said in a low voice.  "He doesn't look happy."

"Hope must have refused to say anything."

"It is worse than that," Sherlock said, his eyes flicking over the set of Lestrade's shoulders, the angle of his hat, and the look on his face.  "Hope is dead.  Murdered in his cell, as John Williams was before him."

There was a sharp rap on the front door and a murmur of voices in the hall, followed by Lestrade's entrance into the room.  "Your pardon, gentlemen," Lestrade said, "but I thought that Sherlock would want to know the news as soon as possible."

"Hope is dead," Sherlock said flatly.

Lestrade nodded, not looking surprised that Sherlock had ascertained that.  "Poisoned in his cell, the same as his victim.  The prison doctor believes he must have hidden one of the tablets on his person although the guards swear they searched him."

Sherlock shook his head.  "His patron found a way to get to him."

Lestrade looked over at John.  "My Lord, since you were to be the next victim, you may still be a target.  Your life might be in danger here in London until we apprehend the mastermind behind this plot."

John shrugged.  "Then it's just as well that we'll be leaving town for a little while, isn't it?"

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.  "Leaving town?"

"Our honeymoon?" John said and, when Sherlock looked puzzled, he added, "It is customary for newly married couples to go away for a few weeks after their marriage.  Did you not know that?"

"If I did, I deleted the information."

"Deleted?"

Sherlock held his hands up to either side of his head.  "There is only so much information that one can store in one's brain.  I delete that which is of no use to me.  As I never expected to marry..."

"You deleted everything to do with marriage?" John asked, incredulously. 

"Not everything; just the non-essential information.  Such as 'honeymoons'."  Sherlock paused.  "And the location for this intended sojourn?"

"I thought I'd show you my home, Saughton.  In Scotland," John said tentatively.  "Unless you'd prefer some place else.  Paris, perhaps?"

Sherlock waved that thought away.  "I've been to Paris - tedious.  At least Scotland will be new.  Are you acquainted with any of the constabulary there?"

"A few, from my younger days at University," John admitted.  "And I'm related to a fair portion of the legal and judicial members in Edinburgh.  I suppose I could see if they'd let you have a look-in on any crimes they can't solve."

"Capital!" Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together and looking delighted at the prospect of tackling a new crime venue. 

Mycroft brought over a tray of glasses filled with rich dark wine and offered them around.  "To a rewarding merger between our two families!" he proposed, raising his glass in toast, looking very satisfied with the result of his plans.

"To Sherlock and John," Lestrade added, smiling at both men although there was a troubled look around his eyes.  "Many happy years."

As the toast was echoed and the wine drunk, John hoped that the shiver he felt up his spine was from nerves and not something more ominous.  And he ignored the darker frisson of excitement accompanying it that anticipated the threat of danger.

 

End of Part 1 - A Study in Courtship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information about the murders came from many sources, already listed, plus [The Maul and the Pear Tree](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/573194.The_Maul_And_The_Pear_Tree) by P.D. James and T.A. Critchley. It is an interesting story and gives a nice atmospheric image of the time period.
> 
> Addendum: someone asked me about the currency equivalence. Sherlock's income of £10,000 annually represents about 5% of his trust fund principal (his trust would be about a quarter of a million pounds in that time). It is equivalent to about £400,000 annual income in today's money, which is quite a fortune for the time. However, that's just not mad money for spending - from it, John would be expected to pay the salaries of all his staff, the costs of supporting at least two residences, clothing for John and his dependants, etc. - and yes, it would all be John's money except for the allowance or "pin money" given to Sherlock for his expenses, such as clothing. Compare that to earlier when John said the estate currently brought in £2,000 a year, and you can see why John was shocked by Sherlock's dowry. Sherlock would have been considered quite a rich catch, equivalent to the wealthy Mr. Darcy.


	16. Part II: Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding bells ring for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, but the day isn't as blissful as it should be.

**Part Two: The Blind Bridegroom**

**Chapter One**

 

Marriage Announcements in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_ and other papers:

 _Jan.29.  At St. George-in-the-East, London, by special license,_  
_the Right Honourable John Earl of Saughton, to_  
_Mr. Sherlock Holmes of London._

 

Excerpt from a Gossip Column by Langdale Pike in the Morning Post on Feb. 1:

 _The nuptials of the new Earl of Saughton to Mr. Sherlock Holmes were celebrated_  
_Monday at the church of St. George-in-the-East.  Due to Lord Saughton's recent bereavement,_  
_the ceremony was private, attended by the Bride's brother as well Lt. Colonel James_  
_Sholto, late of His Majesty's 66th Berkshire Rifles, Surveyor Lestrade of_  
_the Thames River Police, and Dr. Michael Stamford of St. Bartholomew's Hospital._

 _Alms were liberally distributed among the Parish Poor by Mr. Sherlock Holmes following_  
_the ceremony.  The Wedding breakfast was held at Mr. Holmes's family home in_  
_Russell Square, attended by close friends of both parties.   Afterwards, the couple_  
_departed to Scotland for their bridal tour, to include Lord Saughton's estate near_  
_Edinburgh which is rumoured to be a vastly pretty estate with walks laid out by Sir John Clerk._

 _Lord Saughton, formerly Dr. John Watson of His Majesty's 66th Berkshires, is the fourth son of_  
_the 7th Earl of Saughton and succeeded to the title last year following the untimely death_  
_of his eldest brother, James.  Mr. Sherlock Holmes is the second son of the late Mr. Siger_  
_Holmes, M.P., and brother to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Second Permanent Under-Secretary at_  
_the Home Office. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Omega Heir to the late Hugo Holmes of textile fame,_  
_is to have a jointure of 10000l. per annum and 1000l. a year for pin-money.  Upon their_  
_return to London, the couple will make their residence at 221 Baker Street._

 

*************

 

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were married shortly before noon on January 29th of 1821. 

The day dawned clear and cold, with no sign of the snow that had plagued London for several days, and by ten in the morning John was ready for this day to be over.  He had dressed with care in new clothing obtained _without_ Mycroft Holmes's influence, and as he studied his reflection in the mirror he thought that he would not put his intended to the blush by his appearance.  His new linen shirt was snowy white and his cravat of black silk matched his stockings.  His waistcoat was white satin with delicate black embroidery, and his black superfine cutaway coat and breeches had been personally fitted by Stultze, whose military-influenced style he preferred.  John had been freshly shaved that morning, and the barber had trimmed his hair into a fashionable close-cropped Caesar.  Although no one would ever mistake John for a Tulip of the Ton, he thought that he presented a credible appearance for his wedding.

Since he would be leaving London almost immediately after the wedding, this was also his last morning of residence in the hotel.  His suite had been tidied in preparation for his departure and nearly all signs of his habitation there for the past month had been erased.  John had packed most of his personal possessions into his trunk the night before and had them delivered to Russell Square, to accompany him on the wedding trip.  His last minute items were in a carpet-bag by the door, waiting to be entrusted to the porter for delivery as well.  His bill had been settled and his forwarding address left with the front desk.   All was in readiness.

A discreet knock on the door by a porter informed him that his grooms-man had arrived, and he entrusted the carpet bag to the porter before welcoming Mike Stamford into his rooms.  As Mike toasted to his future happiness with the glass of sherry John poured for them, his well-wishes were so warm and sincere that John had a sudden, wrenching desire to be marrying the partner of his heart.  But try as he might, Mary's sweet face wouldn't come into focus, her golden curls and blue eyes superimposed by dark hair and changeable eyes.  He felt oddly numb, as if he moved within a dream - or perhaps a nightmare - from which there was no awakening. 

Driven by a need to _move_ , he drained his own glass of sherry quickly and picked up his overcoat.  He stopped at the front desk to check for messages but there were none.  It appeared that Major Sholto had not been able to overcome his craving for solitude in order to attend John's wedding, and he tried not to view it as a harbinger of disaster as they headed towards the church of St. George-in-the-East.

John hadn't had much opportunity to view the church itself when he and Sherlock had visited its graveyard, but as their carriage pulled into the circular drive in front of the church steps, he had a chance to view the Western entrance with its twin curved stairs leading up to the pillared exterior door.  It was an unusual structure, unlike the churches back home, and he wondered again why Sherlock had chosen this place.  As they ascended the stairs, John was surprised to see Wiggins standing at the top landing with about a half-dozen young lads in tow.  Wiggins doffed his cap upon sighting John and made him an awkward half-bow, then ushered the boys into the church, removing caps from two of them as they passed and confiscating a sling-shot from another.  As John followed them inside, he saw them file into a pew at the back with Wiggins on the end - whether to maintain decorum or prevent escape was the question.

Mike raised an eyebrow and turned to John.  "Friends of yours or Sherlock's?"

"A project of his, you might say."

Mrs. Hudson arrived next, accompanied by another young lad dressed in what was clearly a new set of clothes.  She beamed at John and made a brief curtsey, then shook hands with Mike.

"Such a happy day, and such nice weather!" she said cheerfully.  "I wasn't sure if I could make it in the snow - I've got a hip," she confided to Mike.  "But you couldn't ask for a better day."

John agreed with her, then looked down at the boy.  "And who is this fine lad?"

"M'name is Billy, guvnor," the lad answered with a grin that revealed two missing front teeth.

"You should say 'my lord', Billy," Mrs. Hudson admonished.  "Lord Saughton is to be your new master."  To John she said, "Billy is the new page, my lord.  Sherlock found him for us."

John thought that he could make a good guess as to who exactly had found the lad, and when Billy leaned around Mrs. Hudson to wave at the other boys in the pew, it was confirmed.  He smiled again at the young lad.  "Pleased to meet you, Billy.  I hope you'll be happy in our service."

"Likewise, guv - me lord," Billy replied.

Mrs. Hudson excused them and guided the boy up the aisle to take their places in the second pew on the left side.  For a moment, John considered how empty his side of the church would be and wondered if he should have invited anyone to make up his numbers but, as he couldn't think of anyone other than Charlie or Harry that he'd want to attend and both were at too great a distance, he dismissed the idea.

The Holmes's carriage pulled up in the circle next, the footman handing down three gentlemen.  John was no longer surprised to see Surveyor Lestrade in the company of the Holmes brothers and greeted him warmly as he entered the vestibule before turning to his intended.  As always, Sherlock was dressed in the height of fashion, the cut of his coat clearly declaring that it had come from the hands of a master, and more specifically from Jonathan Meyer of Conduit Street.  There were no padded shoulders or stuffing to lend shape to Sherlock's calves for his natural form displayed to advantage.  Sherlock's white shirt and intricately tied cravat gleamed, as did the buttons of his black coat faced with velvet, but it was his waistcoat that caught the eye, being of a vivid shade of purple.  His hair had been lightly trimmed, allowing his curls to cluster on his forehead in the Seraphim style popular among some of the Tulips of fashion, which suited the man as clearly as his clothing.

Greetings were exchanged all around before they made their way down the aisle to the steps of the altar.  Mycroft presented the special license to the officiant and, after examining it and verifying the suitability of the witnesses, the minister declared that they were ready to proceed.  Sherlock and his brother turned toward the altar and John was about to do the same when he saw that another guest had arrived. 

"He's here!" he said, surprised, to Mike.

Sherlock turned back, glancing towards the vestry.  "Who?"

John didn't answer, already striding down the aisle towards Sholto, stopping to first exchange salutes and then shake his hand warmly.  "Major Sholto," John said, smiling, then corrected himself.  "James.  I'm very, very glad to see you here, sir.  I know you don't really do this sort of thing."

Major Sholto smiled faintly.  "I do for old friends, John.  It's good to see you again."

"I began to think you wouldn't make it on time."

"I very nearly didn't," Major Sholto admitted.  "I had forgotten how congested the London streets are."  He looked past John to the rest of the party watching them with curiosity.  "No need to ask which is your intended," he said with a wry smile.  "You always had an eye for the prettiest ones - and they buzzed about you like bees round honey."

"All but one," John said pointedly.  "I had to chase you instead."  Sholto flushed slightly and John laughed.  "Come; let me introduce you."  He led Sholto to where the rest of the wedding party waited.  "Sherlock, I'd like you to meet my former commander, Major James Sholto.  James, this is my fiancé, Sherlock Holmes." 

The two men shook hands and Sholto said, "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes.  You're getting a fine man for a husband.  John Watson was one of the best doctors, the best of men, under my command."

Sherlock murmured his thanks, then introduced Lestrade and his brother.  Mycroft eyed the Major with interest as he shook his hand.  "A pleasure, Major," he said.  "We have heard word of you in the Home Office.  That business in Agra was very skilfully handled."

Major Sholto shook his head.  "I was just doing my duty, sir."

"Indeed.  Which is quite remarkable."

"Gentlemen?" They all turned to the minister who smiled genially at them,  "If we are ready?"

As everyone agreed that they were ready, John and Sherlock took their places in front of the minister.  And so they were duly married with an audience of a half dozen young boys, an elderly housekeeper, and four witnesses.  If anyone noticed that John looked as flushed as Sherlock was pale they no doubt put it down to nerves, for each of them seemed composed and spoke their responses clearly.   John once more felt as if he was moving through a dream, distant and removed from what was happening, although the dictates bred into him kept him from betraying this.

There were only two moments during the ceremony when he came back to a sense of himself.  The first was when Sherlock's cold hand was placed in his and he was directed to place the ring on Sherlock's finger.  He realized with a sense of shock that Sherlock's hand was larger than he'd thought - larger than his own - and had a moment of panic that his mother's ring wouldn't fit, but it slid quite easily over the long, slender fingers.  The second was when he was told to kiss his new Omega spouse to seal their pledge and the feel of cool lips against his filled John with sudden panic.  Good manners kept him from repulsing his new husband but a flicker in Sherlock's eyes had told him that the other man had felt his instinctual panic and registered it, and John was suddenly ashamed of himself.  None of this was Sherlock's fault and John owed him consideration at the least.  That allowed him to smile with something approaching real warmth at Sherlock, to tuck the man's cold hand in the crook of his arm for reassurance as they turned to greet their well-wishers as a newly married couple. 

As there were few spectators, this ordeal was brief and then they signed the register and were ready to take carriage to Russell Square for the wedding breakfast.  Once more, John offered his arm to Sherlock and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, he took it.  At the back of the church Sherlock paused for a moment beside the pew with Wiggins and the boys and produced a small purse from his pocket.

"A guinea each, I think, in honour of the day," he said, looking over the assembled boys.  "Keep your ears to the ground while I'm gone and report anything of interest to Billy." He handed the purse to Wiggins, saying to him, "Come to Russell Square when you are done here."

Wiggins nodded and turned to the other lads who eagerly gathered around him as John and Sherlock continued on their way.  However, as they exited the church, John was surprised to see that a large crowd had gathered around the base of the steps.  They seemed quiet and respectful but John paused rather than descend into their midst.  The rest of their party joined them on the landing outside the church and Lestrade stepped forward. 

"What's all this?" Lestrade called down to the crowd.  "This is a private event.  Be about your business!"

"We mean no harm, Surveyor Lestrade," one of the men called back, then pointed up at them.  "Be that Mr. Sherlock Holmes?  The one what discovered the murderer, Jeff Hope?"

Sherlock stepped forward although John moved with him, warily watching the crowd for trouble.  "I am."

The man turned back to the others and cried out, "Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes!"  There was a loud if somewhat ragged cheer from the gathered crowd.  Sherlock looked surprised and gratified, returning the salute with a slight wave of his hand.  Then Mycroft stepped up and handed Sherlock a small purse, murmuring something to him.  Sherlock opened it and then held it out to John, and he saw that it was full of pennies. 

John smiled.  "I had forgotten that tradition.  We do the same back home in Scotland.  Go ahead, toss them to the crowd."

Sherlock scooped out a few coins and scattered them far and wide over the crowd.  There was a cheer and a scramble among those gathered to secure one of the coins, and Sherlock tossed more coins until the purse was empty.  The crowd cheered them again, then began drifting off in the direction of the shops and taverns, and John had no doubt that their new pennies would be quickly spent.

"Maybe they'll drink a toast to us," John said to Sherlock.  "This is why you wanted to be married here, instead of Hanover Square, isn't it?  So your boys could attend, and the people from the neighbourhood.  Oh, not for the cheering, but because you feel a part of this place and the areas like it."

Sherlock gave him a surprised look which sharpened into something like approval.  "Very good.  You got most of it wrong, but at least you're using your brain."

John was startled into a laugh.  "Most of it wrong?"

"Part of your analysis was correct but I don't feel a part of this place.  I don't feel a part of any place."   Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and stalked down the steps toward the waiting carriages.  John felt another sudden twinge of sympathy for him as he followed.

The wedding party was loaded into the carriages and borne off to Russell Square where a splendid feast had been laid out.  John's eyes widened at the sumptuous array of food and the display of fine plate and crystal.  He said nothing, however, for Mycroft was playing the role of the consummate host and their guests were visibly impressed by the display.  Sherlock was the only other person who seemed disapproving; John saw his lips tightening as Sherlock took in the sight and, as their eyes met across the table, John felt that flash of kindred emotion again.

To distract himself, John turned his attention to the wedding guests.  He made sure that everyone had a glass of champagne and food and accepted the congratulations and toasts.  He saw to it that Mrs. Hudson had a comfortable seat and an assortment of creams and jellies, as well as a glass of punch.  He had the satisfaction of seeing Sholto and Sherlock engaged in conversation although for his own peace of mind he didn't hover close enough to hear the subject of their discussion.  He orchestrated a talk about football between Mike and Lestrade, slipping away as they entered into a friendly but heated discussion of the merits of running with the ball.  He smiled and laughed and sipped at champagne while ignoring the food, feeling again as if he had slipped into a dream.

Finally, while everyone seemed to be occupied, he found a few minutes to sit down and catch his breath.  A headache had begun to form behind his eyes and his leg was starting to ache, while his stomach roiled from both its empty state and nerves.   He leaned his head back against the chair's cushions and let his eyes wander idly among the guests.

"He looks lovely, doesn't he?"

John turned his head to see that Mrs. Hudson had come to stand beside his chair.  Hastily, he started to rise to his feet only to be gently pushed back down by her hand on his shoulder while her other hand gestured toward where Sherlock stood talking with Mike. 

"Um, yes, I suppose so," John said, not wanting to admit that he hadn't been looking at his new spouse.

"I told him that colour for his waistcoat would suit him," she said fondly. 

"Did you?"

"Oh, yes.  One of my former Gentlemen was an artist and he taught me how to do my colours.  'Never wear cerise', he told me.  Upsets my humours, apparently."  She looked back at Sherlock.  "Aubergine, they call that shade of purple.  Very appropriate considering your mourning status - his Court coat is to be that colour as well and should be very nice.  Gives him a sort of glow."  She then smiled and winked at John.  "Of course, being in love causes its own sort of glow."

John cleared his throat.  "Mrs. Hudson, you should know that - well - this isn't a love match."

"Of course it is, dear," she said, absently patting his shoulder.  "I knew it the first time I saw you at Baker Street.  Now, I'll bring you a nice glass of punch while you just sit here a bit and rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" he muttered as she moved away, but not loud enough for her to hear.

"Your injury bothering you again, Lord Saughton?"

John turned, startled, to see that Mycroft had appeared next to him.   "You realize that we are family now.  You can call me 'John'."

"Very well.  John."  Mycroft looked around the room at his guests, then back at John and smiled thinly.  "Not to your tastes, I know, or Sherlock's, but there are appearances that must be maintained."

"Such as Court and Society events?"

"And the House of Lords.  You will be taking your seat there."

"To do what?" John asked.  "I know nothing about politics - and before you offer, I would rather not receive instruction from you.  No offence."

"None taken," Mycroft replied.  "I know better than to suggest that you allow me to direct your votes.  I believe that you will find your own way."

"And you know this how?"

"King and Country, Captain Watson."  Mycroft looked back at John.  "And now I believe that you have a long journey ahead of you?  You will be taking my travelling coach.  I have booked accommodations and arranged for changes of horses along the route."  He signalled to the butler who announced to the assembled guests that the bridal pair was preparing to depart.

The leave-taking was not prolonged.  Mycroft shook hands with both John and his brother.  Mrs. Hudson hugged both of them and shed tears, promising them a fine dinner when they returned home.  John's hand was warmly clasped by Mike, then by Lestrade.  Major Sholto saluted John again, then gruffly advised him not to let the horses stand in the cold.  The butler helped John into his greatcoat and, to his surprise, he saw a nattily dressed Wiggins do the same for Sherlock.  They were handed into the travelling coach, Wiggins and the coachman mounted the box seat, and they swept out of the square.

John turned to Sherlock as the carriage turned the corner.  "Is that Wiggins on the box seat?  Why is he coming along with us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Wiggins is my new valet.  Do keep up, John."  He began investigating the large basket on the other seat, pulling out cold chicken wrapped in a cloth napkin.  "Excellent!  I do not think I've eaten a bite all day.  And there are pasties as well."   He gave John an appraising look. "You should eat as well.  It will help that headache."

"I'm not hungry," John said shortly.

"If you wish to make a martyr of yourself because you're annoyed with my brother, that's your affair.  However, having a great many years of experience with Mycroft, I can tell you that you will catch cold at that.  Best to just ignore him - it's what I do."  He pulled out a bottle of cold cider and held it out to John.

For a moment, John was inclined to stubbornly refuse but then his sense of humour kicked to life and he realized that he was cutting off his nose to spite his face.  He accepted the bottle and then rummaged in the basket for pasties and cake.  He and Sherlock toasted each other with cider and then settled back in Mycroft's well-sprung carriage for the first leg of their long journey to Scotland.

And for the first time in a very long time, John found himself eager to return home to Saughton.


	17. Part II: Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock journey to Scotland, by ways long and weary. Their reception at their home is not entirely joyous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information on travel during this time and on their route can be found at [Traveling in Regency England on World-building](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/4232094)

In the end, it took the better part of ten days to reach Saughton.

After spending their wedding night at a little inn outside of London on the Great Road, they set off for Scotland on the 30th under clear skies and on firm, dry roads.  The first few days on the road were uneventful and they made good time, and John had never been more miserably bored in his life. There was nothing for him to do.  Hugh, the coach-man, was skilful with the reins, even on the crowded sections of road, arriving at each posting house for a new change of team with a precision that was almost frightening.  Their rooms were bespoke and paid for in advance by Mycroft - two bed-chambers with a private little parlour connecting them at the best inn in each village - and they were always neat and well-aired.  There was little for John to do but hand Sherlock down from the coach, eat the excellent dinner provided, and bid Sherlock good-night before settling in a comfortably warm bed to sleep.  Inevitably, the nightmares would wake him in the early hours of the morning, leaving him to toss and turn until Wiggins knocked him up for breakfast.

That turned out to be the biggest surprise of their journey.  Wiggins had settled into his new role as Sherlock's manservant with an aplomb as if born to the job.  He was equally skilful at supervising their table and Sherlock's wardrobe, and If he wasn't as top-lofty as James's man had been, at least John found him easier to be around.  John had even allowed Wiggins to shave him on the second morning after watching how carefully he attended Sherlock, although usually John preferred to handle the matter himself.  However, he declined Wiggins's services as valet in general - looking after himself at least gave him something to do.

The heart of the matter was that John was unaccustomed to travelling in such style.  Even when he'd pulled the job of riding back to hospital in the wagons with the wounded, there had been something to do.  Most of the time in the field, however, he'd been on horseback which gave him physical exercise at the least.  John tried to pass the hours of the journey by thinking about what tasks needed to be done at Saughton on his arrival but his enthusiasm for that chore had paled before they'd stopped for their first night's lodging.  It was impossible for him to nap during their travelling, even after having had a broken night's rest.  He was unable to read as the motion of the carriage made the letters on the pages dance before his eyes in a nauseating way.  He had little interest in the inhabitants viewed outside their carriage window and none in the scenery which seemed to be monotonous in the extreme.  Sherlock's speculations on the lives and characters of those they passed were amusing but when the other man lapsed into silence to read or doze, John found himself bored to tears.  
  
John had expected that Sherlock would be a nightmarish travelling companion, that he would be likewise bored with the monotony and the lack of active pursuits and more prone to complain about it, but the opposite was true.  Sherlock had turned out to be an acceptable travelling companion, by turns inquisitive about every village they passed through and then so indolent that he had to be roused to leave the carriage.  He had provided himself with a quantity of books on a number of subjects with which he passed the long hours, in between asking John a variety of questions about Scottish customs, exactly as if he was about to visit some quaint foreign locale.  John envied Sherlock his ability to make the best of the long hours and endeavoured to contain his restlessness.  
  
On the second day of their journey, they alighted at Stilton mid-afternoon to warm themselves by the fire at The Angel while their horses were changed.  As they were getting back into the carriage to continue the last leg of their journey for the day, John was surprised to find an ostler waiting for him with a saddled horse.  
  
"What's this?" he asked.  
  
"Requested by his Lordship," the man replied with a jerk of his head in Sherlock's direction.  
  
John turned to his new husband, puzzled.  "Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock huffed and said, "Your inability to remain still is driving me mad. Perhaps some fresh air will restore your good humour."  
  
John was aware that his temper had probably not been the best even if he had resolutely curbed his tongue, and gratitude washed over him.  Impulsively, he brushed a brief kiss over Sherlock's cheek as he handed him up into the carriage and said, "Thank you! I will endeavour to improve."  
  
Sherlock looked startled and then flushed, no doubt embarrassed by John's demonstrative act in front of strangers, but merely said, "Good," before taking refuge in one of his large tomes. John mounted the horse and, finding it to be a decent enough nag, set it through its paces once they'd left the environs of Stilton. The exercise and the cold air on his face restored his equilibrium and he turned to ride alongside the coach for the rest of the distance to Stamford.  He was able to face Sherlock across their dinner table at The George with all his good humour restored.  From then on, he made it a point to ride horseback during one leg of their daily travel, and made an effort to be a better travelling companion.

With his days now more active, John found the evenings improved as well.  Once the covers were removed, they settled down across the table from each other with their pipes and books.  John would read out interesting bits from the paper and Sherlock would solve the puzzle, or they'd play piquet.  They'd attempted a game of chess one night but John was so bad at it that they both gave it up as a bad business.  As the fire died down, they would bid each other a friendly good-night and retire to their separate bed-chambers, to meet again over the breakfast table before resuming their trip.  Sherlock's eating habits were erratic, sometimes devouring so much that John thought he might burst, and other times barely tasting a morsel.  John found that his own appetite was better after he began riding during part of the day.  All considered, their journey began to settle into a comfortable companionship that John thought boded well for their future.  Even Sherlock's blatant disregard for the general rules of polite society and his acerbic (and loud) comments about their fellow travellers amused rather than irritated John, something that the Omega appeared to find incomprehensible.  

It was partly through Saturday, their fifth day on the road, that Mycroft's carefully laid plans began to go awry.  They'd stopped to change horses at Selby before proceeding on to York, where they were to spend the day of rest before continuing on the last half of their journey on Monday.  John had just finished twelve miles in the saddle and was glad to enter the inn where there was a good fire to warm his outside and a hearty pint of ale for the inside.  The landlady had been all that was affable and John had accepted the offer of shepherd's pie while their horses were changed.  He was about to raise the first forkful to his mouth when Sherlock, who had been narrowly watching the landlord decant a bottle of claret he'd brought up from the cellar, jumped to his feet and knocked his utensil away.

"Don't touch that, John!  The landlords may or may not be thieves, but they are most certainly cannibals!" Sherlock announced in a ringing tone that echoed through the entire taproom.

There was a long moment of silence and then the town constable, sitting with shepherd's pie in front of him, pushed the plate away and stood up.   "Right.  I think you had best explain what you just said, sir.  And you," he said, gesturing to two hearty men standing at the bar, "had best grab hold of Mr. Jones and his Missus."

* * *

 

Two hours later, John looked back out of the window of the carriage as they quickly left Selby, then raised the window and turned to his companion.  Sherlock had turned his back to John, visibly sulking in the corner of the seat.

"Well, on the positive side, you were right about the thefts.  Those bags from the Post stashed in the rafters - they must have been pinching from Post riders for miles around for decades.  The constable says one of the bags was twenty years old.  You're due the £200 reward for their return."

Sherlock huffed but didn't turn around.

"And there _were_ bodies in the cellar.  It was brilliant the way you discovered that."

"Don't.  Patronize.  Me."

"I'm not.  It was amazing.  No one else noticed the dust on the bottle _or_ the smell on the innkeeper's smock."  John paused.  "Of course, you had no way of knowing that the inn had been built over an old cemetery."  Sherlock growled and John grinned.  "Yeah, well, they'll be pulling that down, and no one in the village will be happy to lose their only pub.   We might want to avoid Selby until they've built the new one and have had enough drinks to forget our faces."

"One more word, John, and I will be inviting you to ride with the coachman."

John chuckled but subsided in silence for the remainder of the journey to York.

* * *

 

After spending Sunday in York, they set off on Monday for the second half of their journey.   However, two miles out of Easingwold, one of the horses went lame, forcing them to unhitch the horse and walk it to the nearest inn for a replacement, a mile out of their way.  Once this was accomplished, they set off again only to be beset by a sudden blizzard.  The road before them was completely blanketed by snow and the coachman reluctantly turned off to Raskelf to take shelter.  As they dismounted from the carriage, Hugh the Coachman pulled John aside.  
  
"Be careful, my lord," he said in a low voice so that no one could overhear them.  "This place has an evil reputation.  I'll be sitting up with the horses tonight; I'd advise you to do the same.  Have you a weapon?"  
  
John nodded, stepping back into the carriage to where he'd secured his revolver against the threat of highwaymen.  His weapon in his pocket, he followed Sherlock and Wiggins into the inn, a mean little place that smelled of stale smoke and unwashed bodies.  Silence fell as they made their way to the tap, John felt the stares like knives in his back.  
  
"John," Sherlock said, his voice low and urgent.  
  
"I know," John replied quietly.  "We have no choice; we can't go back or forward 'til the storm ends."  
  
He procured a room from the landlady, feeling her eyes assess them to the penny as she sorted out a key and then led the way up the stairs to a corner room,  John looked around it, noting the single entrance and one small window.  The fire was small and barely warmed the room a few feet in front of it but the room was defensible.  John nodded and paid the landlady for the one night, then firmly closed the door on her.  
  
"Wiggins, go out to the stables and share guard duty with Hugh.  Protect the luggage if you can, but the horses must be kept  safe - if they go missing, we'll be trapped here.  We'll be down at first light; if we're not, take one of the horses and ride back to Easingwold for the constable."  
  
Wiggins nodded and, with a final look at Sherlock, left.  John locked the door behind him and looked around the room.  There were two chairs and he secured one under the door knob, then turned to Sherlock.  
  
"I wouldn't sleep in the bed - no telling how clean it is," he said.  
  
Sherlock nodded and removed his coat, tossing it over the other chair while he donned a woollen sweater from the bag they'd brought in and then wrapped the coat back around himself.   He glanced over at John who had also wrapped up warmly and settled in the other chair, facing the door. 

"Are you planning on sitting up all night?"

John nodded, checking his revolver to make sure that it was primed and ready.  "I've held longer vigils during the war, and had plenty of sleep the past two nights."  Oddly enough, their little adventure in Selby had settled him in a way that eased the nightmares. 

"I require little in the way of sleep, if you need my assistance," Sherlock said.

"Do you know how to shoot?" he asked, and Sherlock shrugged.  "I'll take that as a 'no'." 

John licked his lips, considering.  "If the storm doesn't lift in the morning, if we have to stay here another day, I'll need you alert enough to stand watch while I sleep."  What he didn't say aloud was that if anything was going to happen, it would likely be in the hours between closing time and dawn, but he knew that Sherlock would have deduced that as well. 

Without another word, Sherlock stripped the cover off the bed and spread it on the floor in front of the fire, then laid down upon it with his coat pulled tight around himself.  John added wood to the fire to coax out a little more heat, then settled back in the chair and waited.  He could hear the sounds of the storm outside, and of the taproom below them.  Unlike most of the inns they'd stayed at, however, the murmuring voices had a surly tone to them instead of the merriment usual to a pub.  As the hours dragged by and Sherlock's breathing evened out in sleep, the noisy buzz dropped in volume, interspersed with the sound of the outer door opening and closing as the patrons departed into the night.  It was several hours after the inn went silent that he heard the sound of someone approaching the room along the hallway.  It wasn't the normal step of one of the staff going about their business but the stealthy sound of someone not wishing to be heard.  John reached down to shake Sherlock's foot, waking him from sleep, then straightened in his chair and aimed his revolver at the door.  Slowly, silently, the knob turned and the door eased open a few inches.

John audibly cocked his gun and said, in a low but clear voice, "I am well-armed and I am a former soldier in His Majesty's army.  Unless you wish to die this night, close that door and walk away."

There was silence for a moment, then the door closed and the footsteps moved quickly down the hall, towards the main stairs.

Sherlock sat up, fixing John with a curious, intent stare.  "You weren't at all frightened - your hand is completely steady."

John shrugged, giving the other man a half-smile.  "I've been in worse situations in the Peninsula, more than once."  He didn't add that during those situations he hadn't been responsible for civilian lives, only wounded men who knew the situation going in.

Sherlock nodded, then turned to add wood to the dying fire.  "Since neither of us are likely to sleep for the rest of the night, would you tell me about some of your adventures?"

John nodded.  "Where would you like me to begin?" he said, even as he began mentally sanitizing certain of his adventures of their more amorous details.  It wasn't that he thought such things weren't for delicate Omega ears - leaving aside that Sherlock was hardly delicate - but the other man had already indicated that he was not interested in sexual matters.  Also, it would be ungentlemanly of him to boast of his various conquests.

"I have always thought that the beginning is a good place to start," Sherlock replied.  "When you left for Lisbon - it was from Portsmouth, wasn't it?"

John nodded again and sat back in his chair, casting his thoughts back to the notes he had kept during the war.  He decided that he would pull them out again and put them into proper story format - Georgie had wanted to hear his adventures as well, and perhaps their future offspring would be interested in the story as well.

"At the end of September in 1809," he began, framing his thoughts into the proper format for a tale of adventure, "I said farewell to England and sailed with 100 reinforcements from the 1st Battalion to join the 2nd Battalion in Lisbon, where we were to settle into winter quarters near the border of Portugal..."

* * *

 

The storm lessened in the early pre-dawn hours, much to John's relief.  He and Sherlock made their way cautiously down the stairs to the taproom, but it appeared that the household was still a-bed.  John drew back the bolt on the door and, after a cautious check outside, held the door open for Sherlock who was carrying their travel bags.  John closed the door behind him, feeling little qualms about leaving it unbolted, and determined to leave word with the authorities in the next reputable town they reached.   Hugh Coachman was napping inside the coach but Wiggins was perched on the box, the blunderbuss in his hand, and it was clear that the two had traded shifts through the night.  The horses and goods looked undisturbed but Wiggins was sporting a bloody nose and there was a lingering smell of gunpowder in the air that told its own tale.

Hugh awakened at their approach, relief clear on his face.  "I'll have the horses ready in a trice, my lord," he said, climbing down from the coach.  "And its glad I'll be to shake the dust from this place from my boots."

John checked Wiggins's nose and, finding it unbroken, turned the clean-up over to Sherlock while he went to assist Hugh with hitching up the horses.  Before the sun had fully risen over the horizon, they were driving out of the inn's courtyard and making their way down the snow-covered lane toward the main roads.  Their progress was slow for no other vehicle's tracks had broken the path, but the brisk wind was nearly as good as a crossing-sweep and long before an hour had passed, they had reached the main road.  There John could see that the mail coach from York had already passed, breaking a decent path through the snow, and they set off in its wake.  Another hour brought them to Thirsk where they were more than happy to break their fast at the Golden Fleece, justly known for its good food and excellent ale.  John was tempted to put up there for the night, tired as they all were, but only the knowledge that it would put them more behind in the journey made him amend that to a long break for all parties.  Besides, after conferring with Hugh, they decided that it was best to travel while the weather was clear, as there was sure to be more snow ahead.

Even so, it was a short day's journey, with a brief stop in Northallerton to change the horses before the long pull to Darlington where Mycroft had bespoke them rooms for the previous night.  They arrived in Darlington in the early afternoon only to find that their luck was out again; their suite of rooms at the Black Bear were no longer available.  Instead, they had to make due with a private dining room off the taproom and a single bedchamber for the night. However, after their previous night's misadventure, John felt that he would willingly bed down in the stable if that was all that was on offer.   They were too tired to do more than eat a few bites of their dinner before retiring to bed. 

John courteously turned his back to afford Sherlock privacy, waiting to hear the rustle of bedclothes indicating that the other man was safely settled under the covers before he stripped off his outer clothing and pulled his nightshirt over his long woollens, then climbed into bed as well.  John was aware that Sherlock was lying at the far edge of the bed, stiff as a board; he plucked the extra pillows and laid them down between the two of them to form the semblance of a barrier, then turned his back to Sherlock and fell into a deep sleep.  He had no idea whether Sherlock slept that night or not, but when he awoke in the morning, the bed was empty although it still held residual warmth so Sherlock hadn't been gone for long. He set the latch on the door and stripped down to skin for the first time since leaving York, washing quickly with the warm water in the pitcher by the basin, then redressed in clean attire before going in search of his new husband. 

He found Sherlock in the common room, consuming a hearty breakfast as if starved while the landlady hovered over him like a mother with one chick.  She smiled broadly at John as he entered, clearly under the misapprehension that Sherlock's appetite was due to carnal activities the previous night, and John couldn't help blushing.  Sherlock looked up, rolled his eyes, and poured a cup of tea for John as the landlady went to fetch his breakfast.

"Did you sleep at all?" John asked quietly as he added milk to his tea.

"Some."  He glanced across at John and shook his head.  "It was no fault of yours; you were a very courteous bed-partner, but I am unaccustomed to sharing a bed with anyone, even in the nursery.  My brother and sister were several years older than myself and had been moved from Nurse by the time I was born."

John propped his chin on his hand as he looked at Sherlock with amusement.  "I am trying - and failing - to picture you as a small child."

"It would be difficult, I agree, although there are some who might say I am still childish in many ways.   I am told that I was not an attractive infant, small and pale and inclined to scream.  Of course, I have only Mycroft's word on that."

"What happened to your parents and your sister?  I believe that Mycroft said they were no longer living."

Sherlock nodded.  "My sister died young - she was just seventeen and I was twelve - and my parents a few years later.  They were returning from a visit to my grandparents in France and their ship sank during a storm."

"I'm sorry to hear that."  The landlady set John's plate before him bearing a hearty farmer's breakfast  and he discovered that his appetite was sharp as well.  "My mother died when I was very young from consumption.  She was ill for a number of years before that.  My father died while I was in the Peninsula; he had been very fond of my elder sister, Helen, and when she died he just...faded."

"And your brother?  I believe there was an announcement in the paper that he died in a hunting accident."

John shrugged.  "I was in St. Helena so I don't know all the facts but yes, he was apparently shot while out hunting."

"Alone?"

"I never asked.  Harry - my sister, Harriet - would know more."  Realizing that this was a questionable topic for talking about over the breakfast cups, he turned the subject to the weather and travel.  "Hugh Coachman says that the roads between here and Berwick are reported to be hard-packed or clear, not that we'll make it that far today.  If we're lucky and the weather holds, we will stop at Morpeth tonight and Berwick tomorrow, then be home the night after that."

"I must confess that I will be glad to be in one place for more than one night," Sherlock said.  "You have never made this trip before?"

"Not like this.  When I went to University in London, my father put me on the Mail straight through, and I sailed down with Charlie, my remaining brother, in January.  Are you accustomed to travel?"

Sherlock shook his head.  "Just to Shrewsbury from London at the start and end of terms."  Having finished his meal, he stood.  "I will take a few moments to refresh myself as I see you have before our journey resumes."

John nodded, setting to his meal with renewed enthusiasm.  He was lingering over his second cup of tea when Wiggins swept through the room bearing their travel cases so he rose, donning his heavy coat, and made his way out to the waiting carriage.

* * *

 

The roads were as Hugh Coachman had predicted, although the snow kept them from covering more than fifty miles in a day.  They rested at Morpeth that night, but the following day the inn at Berwick was so full that they pushed on beyond it to Ayton where John was able to secure them private rooms.  This shortened their journey the final day by nearly seven miles but the roads around Haddington were so bad that it made little difference, and the sun was beginning to set on the tenth day of their journey when the carriage turned into the Long Drive leading to New Saughton House.  John caught sight of the gardener's boy pelting across the field and down the side lane toward the manor house to give warning of their arrival.   He smiled, anticipating a good warm meal and a comfortable bed under his own roof.  And for the first time since becoming the lord of this land, he felt a sense of pride and was eager to point out some of the features of the property to Sherlock.

"Of course, the grounds won't show to their best advantage till spring," John finished.  "And here's Saughton House."

Sherlock leaned forward to gaze out the window at the house before them and John wondered what he thought of the place. 

 

                           

 

There was a flurry of activity from the house and by the time John handed Sherlock down from the coach, the household was arrayed in two neat lines to either side of the staircases.  The household staff were lined up to the right, the housekeeper and her maids prim in black gowns with starched white aprons and caps, the footmen and butler resplendent with shined boots and buttons.  The outside staff were more ragged but looked warmer, with their thick boots and coats, their caps clutched in their hands.  John presented his new husband as quickly as possible, dismissing them back to their duties and then, mindful of their audience, gave Sherlock his arm to escort him up the stairs and through the great doors. 

In the entry hall another ordeal awaited: his late brother's three surviving children and their governess.  He greeted them with as much warmth as he could muster but his heart sank.  Their presence meant that Janet hadn't yet relocated to the Dower house.  The children made stilted bows and curtseys, welcoming their new uncle and then the governess, Miss Dobney, speedily removed the children to the nursery.  With a sigh of relief, John turned to Mrs. Price, the housekeeper.

"Would you please show Lord Sherlock to his room to freshen up for dinner?  We've had a long journey."  He looked around.  "And where is the Dowager Countess?"

"My Lady is laid down upon her bed, my lord," Mrs. Price said with the hushed manner of one talking about the critically ill.  "She is prostrate with one of her sick headaches."

"I am sorry to hear that," John said, personally feeling that it was the prospect of being replaced in precedence that had driven his sister-in-law to sulk in her chamber.  Then a thought dawned.  "Her bed - that would be in one of the guest rooms?"

Reprovingly, the housekeeper said, "My Lady has been unwell for some time, my lord.  She hasn't had the strength to move from her own rooms, poor lamb."

John sighed.  "Show Lord Sherlock to the master bedchamber, then, and I will take my old room until the Dowager is well enough to move.   Would you tell the cook that we will require dinner in an hour?  Nothing elaborate - whatever he had planned for...."  The wooden look on the housekeeper's face made John sigh again.  "There isn't any dinner, is there?"

"Not feeling an appetite, My Lady gave the chef the night off."

"Very well; we will make due with broken meats, bread and cheese, served in the upstairs parlour.   And if you would send up the bath to Lord Sherlock's room?  I will show Lord Sherlock up to his room myself."

Not waiting for an answer from the housekeeper, John led the way down the hall to the circular staircase that served the newer addition to the house where the master bedchambers were.  After pointing out Wiggins' bedchamber, he led the way up the stairs to the next floor.  "I apologize for the disarray of the household," he began but Sherlock shook his head.

"No need to apologize, John.  It is clear where Mrs. Prices's loyalties lie."

"Price, the butler, as well," John added.  "They were both hired by my sister-in-law, and the chef as well, so perhaps it's good that he has the evening off."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "Worried about poison in your steak pie?"

"More likely burned pastry and uncooked meets." 

Having reached the upper floor, he pointed out the private privy behind the stairs, then led the way into a cosy little parlour with a fireplace, currently unlit.  "I'll give you the full tour tomorrow, but this is one of many parlours in the house and is generally reserved for the lord and his spouse."  He gestured toward two doors on the left side of the room.  "Those doors lead to the heir's bedchamber and the library, and the door on the other side of the fireplace is the room where my sister-in-law has barricaded herself.  And this," he said, opening the door on the near side of the fireplace, "will be your room."

Sherlock hesitated.  "John, I don't wish to put you out of your room - "

John shook his head.  "It isn't.  This was my father's room and James's.  I haven't slept in it above a month and have no attachment to it.  I'd give you the heir's room but unfortunately it is uninhabitable, beset by damp and mould."  He led the way into the bedroom, pulling aside the heavy curtains so that Sherlock could look out across the lawns.  "Besides, this room will be quieter and has the better views."

Sherlock looked around swiftly.  "It has been recently refurbished."

"If you dislike the colours, we can have it redone," John said, then groaned.  "Oh, lord!  Janet has no doubt hung her rooms with pink satin and cherubs - you wouldn't have been able to sleep a wink among all that in any event.  It will have to be redone."

"And you are certain - ?"

"I will be very comfortable," John assured him.  

Two footmen entered, bearing Sherlock's trunk and travel bag, with Wiggins on their heels giving directions.  A chambermaid scurried in behind them to build up the small fire in the fireplace, and another maid bearing towels and an ewer of hot water followed.

John eyed these preparations, then turned to Sherlock and smiled reassuringly.  "I will take my leave so you may refresh and change.  We won't dress for dinner tonight as it is only the two of us.  We will dine in our little parlour, if that suits you.  My room is on the floor above, just off the main staircase, should you require me."

Wearily, John returned to the lower floor and took the central stairs up to the next floor, to the room that had been shared by the younger boys when last he'd lived here.  It was dark and cold but no worse than he had endured on the continent.  He set his candle on the washstand and then broke the ice in the basin and washed his face.  The cold water cleared away the cobwebs and set his mind to the problem of ejecting the former mistress of the house in favour of its new master.  By the time his trunk had been delivered and his fire built up, he had formed the plan of engaging Clara to assist him in easing Janet and her off-spring out of the house.  He dressed quickly and made his way down to the little parlour where a fire had been laid and a cold supper set out, and by the time Sherlock joined him, he had drafted a note to be taken to Harry by one of the stable lads.

If that didn't work...well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of the Crown Inn at Selby is true, although it took them till 1876 to find the stolen post bags and the corpses, probably because they didn't have Sherlock Holmes on the case. And yes, the town of Raskelf had a bad reputation during this time and after - it is said to be the root of the term "rascal". It lies off the main coaching road in an area described by many of the time as bleak and dreary. Apologies if any of my readers are actually from that area - take up your cudgels with Charles Harper.
> 
> When John starts telling Sherlock his story at the Inn of ill repute, that is drawn from the end of Chapter One of "Watson's Recollections", part One of this series. You don't have to read part one (or the World-building story in part three), but they might help with the background.


	18. Part II: Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock attempt to settle into their home in Scotland. They find it's not as easy as it should be, but there are some unexpected high points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saughton's house plans are laid out in [World-Building, Chapter 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/13829368)

Janet was not at the breakfast table when John went down to the dining room the next morning.   John tried not to take that as a sign for how the day would go.  
  
There was only a light repast laid out, nothing like the past autumn.  He wondered if this was another deliberate attempt to make them uncomfortable, or if finances had become so bad that the kitchen had to scrimp on food.  He resolved to speak to Wimmering that day to let him know how matters lay now.  They would want to make plans for the home farms as well, and see to the needs of the tenant farmers.  And there were changes to be made around the house, staff reviewed, and a firm line of command established.  
  
Once the footmen had withdrawn, John looked across the table at Sherlock who was apparently absorbed in the local paper.  He cleared his throat and, getting no response, cleared it again.  
  
"If you have something to say, John, I suggest you do so.  Otherwise, a few sips of tea might do the trick; Lord knows this vile brew isn't good for much else."  
  
John took a sip of his tea and grimaced.  Sherlock was right; the tea was the worst he'd ever tasted, even compared to that at Wapping Station.  "Sherlock, you're going to have to speak to Mrs. Price."  
  
Sherlock sighed.  "Oh, must I?  I exchanged greetings with her this morning and I feel that my mind has already suffered damage."  
  
"You're in charge of the household now and you must grasp the reins or the staff will run roughshod over you," John pointed out.  "You should speak with each of them in turn, starting with the housekeeper.  Show them that you will be a firm but fair master - "  
  
Sherlock lowered the paper and gave him a disbelieving look.  "Have you _met_ me?  Or is it your desire to lose all our staff in one day?"  
  
John had to admit that he had a point; it had long been his opinion that Mrs. Hudson was a saint to be willing to be their housekeeper in London.  "Well, who managed the staff at Russell Square?  You can't tell me that it was your brother!"  
  
"I haven't the faintest idea," Sherlock replied truthfully.  
  
"Who brought your tea?  Considering the amount of it that you drink, you must know!"  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "I just thought that tea happened."  He took a sip from his teacup then made a face and pushed it away.  
  
John sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to manage the household as well, at least until Mrs. Price came round.  Surveying the partially burned toast in the rack before him, he wondered if they would die of starvation before that happened.  
  
"My sister and her family will undoubtedly join us for dinner this evening, always supposing that the chef is back from his holiday," he told Sherlock.  "And I will need to meet with my estate manager this afternoon.  Would you like a tour of the house before that, once I've finished speaking with Mrs. Price?"  
  
Sherlock sighed dramatically.  "If I must."  
  
Giving up breakfast as a lost cause, John rose.  "I will speak with the staff, then, and meet you back here in thirty minutes."

* * *

  
Mrs. Price was having her breakfast in the housekeeper's room according to the maid (and probably a better one than had been served upstairs, he thought).  He sent word that he wished to speak to her in his study and she appeared with gratifying haste.  Mrs. Price dropped him a stiff curtsey and stood before his desk with her hands folded, waiting for him to speak.   John finished writing the note to Wimmering and handed it to one of the footmen to be delivered, then turned to the housekeeper.  
  
"Good morning, Mrs. Price.  I hope that her Ladyship is feeling better this morning?" he began, hoping that a show of concern about her former employer would soothe her.   
  
"That's as may be," she replied in quelling tones.  "Her Ladyship's health has always been delicate."  
  
"Well, I have two pieces of news that might lift her spirits.  There is no longer the need to practice such stringent measures of economy here, or at the Dower House."  He paused but there was no sign of a thaw in the housekeeper's manner.  "And I believe that the Earl of Dalmahoy, her lady wife, and their family will be joining us this evening for dinner."  
  
This had the effect of bringing a slight smile to the housekeeper's lips.  John knew that Janet was very fond of her sister-in-law as Clara was always ready to cater to her whims.  
  
"Very good, my lord.  I will ask the chef prepare a suitable dinner and have the best silver polished."  She curtseyed again and went off about her business. 

John sighed and started toward the dining room, only to find Sherlock leaning against the door jam where he'd clearly heard most of previous conversation.  
  
"A fine example of grasping the reins firmly," Sherlock said drily.  
  
"Shut up," John muttered.  "Haven't you ever heard of catching more flies with honey than vinegar?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "Why would I want to catch flies?"  
  
John rolled his eyes.  "Oh, never mind.  Shall we start at the top?"  
  
For the next two hours, John took Sherlock over the house, starting on the second floor with the lumber room above Sherlock's room.  Sherlock looked around it with interest, pointing out several pieces of furniture that could be used in refitting the bedroom for John.

John agreed, adding that more had been relegated to the Dower house.  "We can have a look there as well - I believe that's where Janet sent the old furniture when she redecorated here.  I remember that my mother had a lovely four-poster bed."  
  
"And is the Dower House on this property as well?"  
  
"No, thank the Lord; it's closer to Edinburgh, near Corphistine.   Old Saughton House is the former family home, although most of the land around it has been sold or leased.   On the grounds here are the Lodge, where the chief gardener and his family live, and the Home Farm where my estate agent resides.  If the weather is decent tomorrow, we can ride the property.  You can ride, can't you?"  
  
"Of course," Sherlock said loftily.  "I often rode in London."  
  
"A ride over rough land isn't the same as a gallop along the Rotten Row."  
  
Outside of the lumber room was a parlour like their own, and John said, "This floor has always been the domain of the younger members of the family.  In addition to the nursery and the nanny's room, there are two bedrooms on this floor.  They are a little worn but available to guests, if you wish to entertain.  I'm afraid this isn't a big house as estates go - not like Dalmahoy - my sister's house.  My father and grandfather preferred small parties with intimate friends rather than crushes."

"I would prefer not to have parties as all," Sherlock replied. 

As John agreed with that sentiment he didn't reply but instead looked around the room.  The little parlour looked much the same way that he remembered, with discarded sofas and chairs from the lower floors.  John noted with nostalgia the scuffs on the table legs from his brothers' (and his) booted feet kicking them, and the little tear in the corner of the sofa that made a pocket where he'd stored his best treasures as a small boy.  The rug was visibly worn, showing that Janet's interest hadn't extended this far up.  For once, he was grateful for her neglect.  
  
They looked into the nursery where little Margaret had her head bent over an embroidery frame while the twin boys were working away on sums under their governess's supervision.  The three children looked surprised but pleased by their visit, shyly demonstrating their work.  John made admiring noises but the truth was that he'd always found James's children dull and spiritless, which was odd because James had been larger than life. 

After leaving the nursery, they looked into the two bedrooms at the other end of the hallway, once the domain of John's brothers and sisters.  The girls' bedroom at the back of the house he remembered as sickly Anne's domain while he was still in the nursery, and then Helen and Harry's until they had married and moved away.  Now it stood still and empty and scrupulously clean, but he found that he missed Harry's messes.  The boys' room at the front of the house was similarly empty, with only his hastily unpacked kit and discarded clothing marring the careful cleanliness.  Even Charlie's bed and dresser were neatly settled, with only a few bits and bobs laid in the tray on top.  Sherlock looked around each of the rooms with a swift, keen look.  John wondered what he made of all of it, and what he was learning about the family from these rooms.  He said nothing, however, for which John was grateful.  John's memories seemed close to the surface today for some reason.  
  
They descended to the first floor where Sherlock gave a dismissive look into the empty heir's bedroom that smelled strongly of mould before stepping into the library.  He uttered a wordless exclamation of delight before eagerly approaching the bookcases and running his hands over the spines of several of the volumes.  
  
"Bonner's book on increasing bee-keeping in Scotland - I've heard of this but not seen it.   'The Practical Bee-keeper' by Maxwell - wrong, of course, but of historical importance.  Gedde,  Massac, Cooke - "  He glanced over at John.  "Someone in your family was interested in bee-keeping."  
  
John nodded.  "My grandfather.  He built hives on the Home Farm, although I couldn't tell you what state they are in.  My father and brother were much more interested in hunting, although I believe my father continued to add to this collection."  Wild honey had been one of the few things that could tempt his mother's appetite towards the end of her life, he recalled.  "Father collected histories and biographies, and James preferred books on sport and the military."  
  
"You haven't had a chance to start collecting yet," Sherlock murmured, continuing to run his finger over occasional spines as he moved along the bookcases.  "Although I see a few medical tomes - from your time at Edinburgh, I imagine.  You didn't put them here, though; your father did."  He glanced over at John.  "He was proud of you."  
  
John shrugged.  Charles Watson had been a stern, undemonstrative man, proud of his lineage and his lands, but he had not been the kind of man to bestow praise or affection.  Anne and Helen had been the only two of his children to capture his heart, taking after their mother in looks and manner although without her strength of personality.  The only time he could recall where his father had displayed any emotion towards him was when he had put John on the Mail for London.  His father had shaken his hand heartily and admonished him to look after his sister, Helen, who was going to join her husband in London, and had given him a few pounds to spend for their expenses.  The thought that his father had been proud enough of him to display his medical textbooks in the library surprised him.  
  
Leaving the books to be looked over in more detail later, they looked into the rest of the rooms on the floor - the music room, ballroom, and grand salon.  Sherlock declared the piano sadly out of tune and John promised to have a tuner in to see to it, then led him down the wide central stairs to the ground floor.  There he pointed out his study, the butler's pantry, the dining room, and opened the door to the backstairs.  Sherlock, however, paused by the only door that John hadn't opened, across the entry foyer from John's study.  
  
"What is in here?" he asked, giving John an arch look as he added, "Is it Bluebeard's chamber?"  
  
"Hardly," John said with a grin, "Although you enter at your own peril.  It's traditionally the mistress of the house's parlour and, unfortunately, a perfect example of Janet's poor taste."  
  
Sherlock opened the door and, after an initial grimace of distaste at the quantity of pink in the décor, he took a closer look around the room.  "This is to be _my_ domain then?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"And I may make changes to it?"  
  
"Sherlock, short of tearing it down or blowing it up, you may do whatever you like."  John paused.  "Why?  What do you have in mind?"  
  
"A workroom for my experiments, and a private library.  It has good light and space, although all of the furnishings will have to go.  Your sister-in-law seems to have an unhealthy obsession with the colour pink."  
  
"Someone once compared her to a blush rose in a garden and it stuck, unfortunately."  
  
With a last look around the room, Sherlock closed the door.  "That's all of it, unless you wish to see downstairs," John said, gesturing down the narrow back stairs to the basement.  "The kitchens and scullery, the housekeeper's room, the rooms of the female servants, and the pantry."  
  
Sherlock looked horrified at the idea.  "I would rather go back to the library," he announced, heading toward the stairs.  John watched him for a moment, feeling surprisingly pleased about the morning's domestic adventure, then he repaired to his study.

Wimmering was waiting for him in his study looking anxious, and John felt his good mood evaporate.  He produced his copy of the Marriage Contract and Settlements, and while he waited for Wimmering to finish reading them, he paced over to the window  to look out over the grounds.  While he had come to terms with his decision and was becoming increasingly fond of Sherlock, it was still more than a bit galling to admit that he had made a marriage for monetary gain.  When he heard Wimmering's sudden gasp, he knew that the other man had reached the bit about income.  
  
"My - my lord!" Wimmering stammered.  "Ten thousand pounds a year!  The mortgages to be paid and held by your brother-in-law!  The debts settled!"  He looked up, tears brimming in his eyes.  "It's a miracle."  
  
John gave him a wry smile.  "Not precisely, but it means that the estate is saved."  
  
"More than that, my lord.  We can make a real go of the place now," Wimmering said earnestly.  "Mr. Coke of Norfolk has developed a number of new farming methods that, with some adaptations, could work here.  The initial costs will be reaped many times over in the end."  
  
John, who knew nothing about farming and had very little interest in learning more, agreed that they would consult with Mr. Coke about improving their farming practices.  They also talked about renovations needing to be made to the tenant cottages, particularly in regard to drainage and sanitation.  John had seen too much death and disease in India from such sources to risk bringing such disease to Saughton.    
  
"There's just the matter of young Hamish to be settled," Wimmering said, finished up.  
  
"Hamish Martin, the gardener's son?" John asked.  "What's to be done?"  
  
Wimmering flushed and opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.  He cleared his throat and said, "Your brother, the late Earl, promised to apprentice him to the gardener at Paddingham Farms, by the Dower House, with the idea that Hamish would take his place when old Jenkins retires from service."  
  
"Of course," John said, nodding.  "I met the boy briefly on my last visit.  I will speak with him, and if that is what he wishes, then you may make the arrangements for his apprenticeship."  
  
Again, Wimmering looked like there was something he wanted to say but he settled for a faint, "Very good, my lord."  
  
"Anything else?"  Wimmering shook his head and John said, "Good.  Lord Sherlock and I intend to ride about the property tomorrow if the weather holds.  What bits would be the least likely to shock him into bolting for London on the first stage?"  
  
Wimmering chuckled at that.  "His Lordship looked to be of sterner stuff than that."  
  
"Ah, but he's a city boy.  He's probably never seen a cow or a pig before, and hasn't the least notion where his eggs come from."  
  
"The Home farm is well enough," Wimmering said.  "We've managed to keep it up even when we had to let other bits slide."  
  
That reminded John and he said, "Have we hives still?  I seem to remember honey from the Home farm when I was a lad.  Lord Sherlock has a great interest in bee-keeping."  
  
Wimmering's face lit up.  "Ah, those were the days, my lord!  Saughton Farm Honey was much sought after.  The hives don't produce near as much as they once did, but we would be glad to show Lord Sherlock our apiary."  
  
They talked for a few more minutes, and after firming plans for the next day, Wimmering took himself off.    
  
John looked through the correspondence on his desk, noting with satisfaction that there were no additional demands from his brother's creditors.  He took up his pen and wrote a letter to his uncle, confirming that his marriage had taken place.  He had a feeling that Mycroft had communicated with Uncle Alex as well, since he'd admitted knowing him, but good manners required John to inform him personally.  After franking the envelope, he hesitated and then wrote out a brief letter to General Morstan to let him know that his marriage had taken place.  No doubt the announcement would appear in the London and Edinburgh papers, if it hadn't already, but he felt guilty enough about Mary to want to ease her pain as much as he could.  

John had just finished that when the sound of a carriage on the drive caught his attention and he saw that the carriage bore his sister's arms on the door.  Taking a deep breath, he prepared to introduce the two sides of his family to each other.

* * *

 John met Sherlock in the library and shortly afterwards Price showed the Earl of Dalmahoy  and her wife into the room.    
  
"Johnny!" Harry said, giving him a warm embrace.  "Didn't expect to see you back here so soon, and especially not accompanied by a husband."  She slapped his back, affectionately teasing.  Unfortunately, it was his injured shoulder but he managed to only wince slightly.  She turned toward Sherlock, eyeing him appreciatively.  "And a good-looking one at that."  She bowed to Sherlock.  "Harriet Watson-Dalrymple, Johnny's sister."  
  
"Harriet, manners, please!" Clara said reprovingly, coming to stand next to her wife.   She had abandoned the mourning that she'd been wearing the last time John had seen her, and her striped muslin dress with Spencer was tastefully elegant.  He wished that he liked her more but he'd always found Clara overly stiff and repressive.  
  
"Surely we needn't stand on ceremony, Lady Dalmahoy," Sherlock said smoothly.  "We are, after all, family."  
  
"My husband, Sherlock," John said quickly.  "Sherlock, this is my sister, Harriet, the Earl of Dalmahoy, and her lady wife, Clara."  He turned to Harry.  "I hope that our arrival didn't disrupt your day."  
  
"Nonsense, John," Sherlock said briskly.  "Your sister had anticipated your arrival several days ago and was anxious to ascertain your well-being."  
  
Harry looked at him in surprise.  "Aye, we did," she admitted.  "Another day and I would have sent one of my grooms to trace your path, to make sure that you hadn't fallen afoul of the road."  
  
John laughed.  "We did - outside of York.  A lame horse and then a blizzard made us take refuge in a horrible little inn.  That wasn't pleasant.  However, we had a grand adventure as well.  Sherlock solved a twenty-year long robbery ring and uncovered an inn built on an old cemetery."  
  
"How in the deuce did you do that?" Harry asked, looking at Sherlock in amazement.  
  
"That's what Sherlock does - solves mysteries and murders.  The solving of the recent Wapping murders in London?   That was his work."  
  
"Wouldn't that more properly be the task of the authorities?" Clara said, raising an eyebrow.  "Associating with that low class of people, subjecting yourself to the degradation of - "  
  
Sherlock stiffened and John said hastily, "Didn't Georgia and Charles come with you?" before Sherlock could unleash his sharp tongue on Clara.  While John might not have minded Sherlock giving Clara a set-down in general, he needed her in a co-operative mood so that she would intercede with Janet.    
  
"They wanted to go by the stables and see the colts," Harry replied, waving her hand in the general direction of the stables.  
  
John imagined what they really wanted to stop by the kitchen to beg treats from Cook, then he remembered that there was a chef in residence and doubted that there were home-made biscuits in his kitchen now.    
  
"Your journey was fine other than that?" Clara asked, removing her gloves and sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace.  
  
"Long," John admitted.  "The roads north of Darlington were miserable."  
  
"Tea?" Sherlock asked.  "Or would you prefer something stronger after your cold drive?"  He looked pointedly at Harry.  
  
"Tea will be fine," Clara said firmly, and John nodded dismissal to the maid standing by the doorway.  "And your arrival here?  How do you find the house?"  
  
That was the opening John had been looking for so he took the seat next to Clara.  "There's been a bit of a problem in that area, actually.  Janet took her to her bed shortly before we arrived - "  
  
" _Your_ bed," Sherlock said pointedly.  "Or mine."  
  
" - and she's still there.  The household staff defers to her, they take my orders to her first."  John gave Clara a helpless shrug and his best smile.  "This can't continue, Clara.  Would you speak with her?  Convince her that it's time for her to relinquish the keys and it's best to make a clean break?"  
  
Clara reached over to lay her hand on John's.  "Of course I will, John.  You're right; it must be intolerable for you.  For both of you," she said, looking over at Sherlock with a glimmer of sympathy.  "You need to make your own home.  I understand."  She rose and smoothed her skirts.  "I will go talk to Janet right now."  
  
"Thank Christ," John murmured as Clara left the room.  
  
Harry was watching Clara leave the room and John saw a wistful look on her face.  He wondered if their marriage was having trouble again.  "She'll talk Janet 'round.  Clara understands Janet but she will uphold your rights."  There was a clatter in the doorway and Harry sighed as her two children dashed into the room.  "Manners, please!  Your uncle will think you were raised in a bear pit!"  
  
The two children ignored her, careening into John.  "Uncle John!"  
  
He laughed and hugged first Georgia and then her brother.  "It's only been a month.  You can't have missed me already."  He turned them around.  "This is your new Uncle Sherlock, so make him your best bows."  
  
"You're really married!" Georgia exclaimed, giving John a cross look.  "Without any of us there?"  
  
"We'll have a party to make up for it, all right?"  
  
"Speaking of which, John," Harry said, drawing him away from the children.  "Clara is already planning a party to present you and your husband.  So unless you want everyone you hate staring at you and gossiping like you're a nine days' wonder, you'd better make a list.  And have you heard the new law they're proposing...."  
  
As Harry wandered onto the subject of the new farm laws, John watched out of the corner of his eyes as his niece and nephew sized up their new uncle.  He'd seen Sherlock with his Irregulars, but his niece and nephew were a completely different story.  He couldn't help worrying about what might happen.  
  
Sherlock crossed his arms and regarded the two children standing before him, watching him with interest.  "Your uncle was thinking that you were more interested in biscuits from the kitchen, not the foals in the stables, and he is correct.  The French chef in residence disdains such things, but one of the housemaids has a fondness for you and she brings biscuits from home, keeps them in a tin for you in the pantry."  
  
"That's clever of you," the boy said, looking up at him with admiration. "Elsie heard that you'd helped solve a crime at an inn on your way here.   Is that true?"  
  
" 'Helped' implies that the local law enforcement was investigating in the first place, which they were not."  
  
"What had they done?" Georgia asked.  
  
"Robbery, although there was the possibility that they had committed murder as there were decomposing bodies in the cellar," Sherlock replied, dropping into the lecturing voice that John had begun to know so well.  "The innkeeper and his wife were the centre of a gang of thieves who robbed the Mail in the surrounding areas and then concealed the bags at the inn until their contents could be evaluated and sold."  
  
"What about the bodies?" the boy asked eagerly.  "Were they murdered?"  
  
"Unfortunately, no.  The inn had been built above a forgotten cemetery and, over time, the ground in the cellar settled and revealed the rotted caskets. The cellars were damp, which accelerated the decay of both the wood of the coffins and the bodies.   The innkeeper concealed this information because he knew an investigation would uncover the robbery ring."  
  
"Wish I could have seen that," the boy said and fixed Sherlock with an intent gaze.  "I'm going to be a scientist one day," he said, with the air of someone who had heard too many adults disparage his dreams.  
  
"Are you, indeed?" Sherlock said, his own interest sparked.  "I am something of a scientist myself."  He paused, as if thinking through something.  "I will be setting up a workroom and laboratory in that hideously pink parlour, and the assistance of a young man such as yourself would be beneficial."  He held out his hand.  "We were not properly introduced.  Sherlock Holmes-Watson, at your service."  
  
The boy solemnly shook his hand.  "Charles James Archibald Watson-Dalrymple."  
  
"Really?" Sherlock asked, frowning.  "That is quite a long name.  What do they call you?"  
  
The boy glanced over at his father but Harry hadn't noticed and John pretended to be absorbed in Harry's story, curious about he would say. "Father calls me Charlie but I hate that."  
  
"Quite right; you're not a 'Charlie' in the least.  Anyone can see that."  Sherlock studied him for a moment, then gave a sharp nod.  "Archie."  
  
The boy's face lit up.  "I like that!"  
  
"Excellent." Sherlock clapped his hands together briskly.  "Once my trunk is unpacked and my workroom set up, we shall discuss experiments, Archie.  It will be quite brilliant."    
  
He turned to Georgia, extending his hand.  "And you must be Georgia.  Your uncle has spoken of you."  
  
Georgia made a little bow, then shook Sherlock's hand. "You don't look anything like the sort of Omega I thought Uncle John would marry," she said frankly.  
  
"Don't I?"  
  
Sherlock cast a look in John's direction and he hastily looked back at Harry (still droning about what the Corn Laws were doing to her profits) although his attention remained on Sherlock and the children.  
  
"No.  You're far more interesting," Georgia replied.  "I was afraid he'd bring home one of those meek, dull Omegas who can only think about their nurseries and dresses.  Are you going to continue solving crimes?  And Uncle John doesn't mind?"  
  
"On the contrary.  Your uncle assisted me with my last case in London.  As a matter of fact, when I was abducted by a murderer, your uncle rescued me and shot the murderer."  
  
"Really?  Did he die?"  
  
"Oh, of course not.  Your uncle wouldn't cheat the hangman like that, and he's a very good shot.  He disarmed the man and then patched him up."  
  
John could feel two pairs of curious eyes on him and he couldn't help flushing, especially as Harry had stopped talking as well and was staring at him, too, a dumbfounded look on her face.  
  
"Johnny?"  Harry then grinned.  "Thank God Clara isn't here or you'd never hear the end of it.  Not proper behaviour for an Alpha," she murmured to John.  
  
John was prevented from replying by the arrival of the tea tray  The five of them settled on chairs while Sherlock poured out the tea cups for the adults, milk for Archie, and passed around plates of cake and biscuits.  The children politely waited till everyone was settled before Georgia returned to the subject.  
  
"Mother won't let Charlie - " She saw her brother scowl and corrected herself, "- Archie be a scientist.  She doesn't approve of such things for Omegas, and she wants him to be a minister."  She looked at Sherlock curiously.  "Did your parents really let you study science at University?"  
  
"My parents are dead," Sherlock replied.  "I have an older Alpha brother and yes, he arranged for me to take classes."  To Archie he said, "Tell your mother that you are far more likely to be knighted as a scientist than a minister.  Mothers like that sort of thing."  He frowned, then looked at John.  "Don't they?"  
  
Georgia made a face.  "Not Mother.  She's very religious."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "That would no doubt be a result of her desire to absolve herself of unwarranted guilt for numerous miscarriages.  'It's God's Will' and all that rot."  
  
"Sherlock!" John said although he couldn't help grinning.  He'd be lucky if Clara ever spoke to him again after this.

"Father says worse," Georgia said matter-of-factly.  
  
Harry grinned.  "That I do."  She looked over at her son.  "I didn't know you don't like to be called 'Charlie'.  You would prefer 'Archie'?"  Archie nodded vigorously.  "Well, then, Archie it is."  She then looked back at Sherlock.  "A knighthood, eh?  For an Omega?"  
  
"As clever as Archie seems to be - yes."  
  
Harry preened at the notion of her son being clever.  "Takes after his Uncle Johnny - the only one of us with any brains to speak of."  She tousled her son's hair, oblivious to the face the boy made.  
  
"I am on good terms with curators at most of the museums in London," Sherlock said.  "Perhaps Archie could visit us at Baker Street and I could introduce him."  
  
"Splendid idea," Harry said, nodding.  "Just the thing to see if the boy is serious or if it is a passing fancy."  
  
"And Georgia, of course," Sherlock said, turning to nod at her.  "I have no doubt that we will find something to interest you."

Georgia didn't say anything but the look on her face as she sipped her tea was thoughtful, and John had no doubt that she was forming plans.  He hoped that Sherlock knew what he was getting himself into, but at the same time he was pleased that his favourite family members were getting on so well with his new husband.

Now if only Janet could be brought around.

* * *

  
  
Clara must have said just the right words for Janet joined them in the parlour for drinks before dinner.  She had discarded her widow's weeds for the occasion and was arrayed in her favourite rose-pink gown, with a darker pink shawl shot through with gold thread artfully draped over her shoulders against the evening chill. 

"John!" she cried out as she entered the room, her hands extended dramatically.  "Can you ever forgive me for not greeting you properly on your arrival?  If only I didn't suffer so from those dreadful headaches!  And where is your little bride?" 

As Sherlock rose from his chair, her eyes widened in genuine surprise.  John didn't know what she had expected, but clearly it was not this tall, elegantly attired gentleman.  They had all dressed for dinner, and Sherlock was wearing an evening coat of jet black with gleaming white linen.  He looked as magnificent as a peacock among sparrows, and John felt a surge of pride at being his husband.

"Oh!"  Janet looked to John.  "Such an attractive young Omega!  Will you introduce me?"

John was pleased to be able to do so.  "Sherlock, I'd like you to meet my sister-in-law, the Dowager Countess of Saughton.  Janet, this is my husband, Lord Sherlock, Viscount Saughton."

Janet's mouth tightened briefly, although whether it was because he'd called her "Dowager" or because his introduction had accorded Sherlock the higher rank wasn't clear.   She dredged up a smile, her hand outstretched for him to bow over.  "Welcome, dear Sherlock!  We are so glad to have you as part of the family.  I am sure that you and John will be very happy."

"Delighted to be here," Sherlock replied, a smile every bit as false as her own on his face.  "May I offer you a drink before dinner?  Claret, perhaps?  I would suggest sherry but the bottle appears to be missing.  Perhaps one of the staff has mislaid it."

Janet's lips tightened.  "Thank you, no."  She glanced around the room and said, "Charles, dear, I think it's time that you join the nursery party."

Archie scowled and glanced at his mother who nodded in agreement, then at Sherlock.  "Must I?  They are so...childish."

Sherlock turned to Clara.  "Perhaps, as it is a special occasion, Archie could be allowed to remain?  Please?"  There was such a winsome, pleading expression on his face that no one would have had the heart to turn him down.  John had to turn his sudden laugh into a cough, for he had seen Sherlock pull that same expression out on Mrs. Hudson to equal effect.

"Of course, Sherlock, dear," Clara said warmly, then gave her son a stern, warning look.  "Just as long as he minds his manners."

"Archie?" Janet asked, blankly.  "Who is Archie?"

"I'm Archie, Aunt Janet," the boy replied, and smiled up at Sherlock.  "Uncle Sherlock says it suits me much better than 'Charlie'."

"Indeed," Janet said, her voice cool, then shrugged.  "You should be proud to be named for your grandfather, but since Sherlock is new to our family, I suppose we can make allowances."  She sat in her favourite chair and settled her shawl most becomingly around her shoulders while the others took their seats as well.  "You and John were married in London - is that your home, Sherlock, or does your family have estates elsewhere?"

"I was born in London and have spent most of my life there," Sherlock replied, casually settling back in his chair.  "However, my family came from Sussex and retains lands there."

"Sussex?  Are you related to the Howards of Arundel?"

"Oh, not in the least," Sherlock said.  "My grandfather owned the largest mills in the county, and it's where he made his fortune.  That, and the silk houses in London."

Janet's expression froze.  "Your grandfather was in trade?"

Sherlock nodded.  "Quite successfully, although we have agents who manage the business now.  My father was a Member of Parliament for Sussex for many years, but my mother..." He paused and Janet leaned forward, "was the daughter of a French painter."

She gasped in shock and turned to look at John.  "And you were aware of this when you married him?  The grandson of a tradesman and a..a..artist?"

John raised an eyebrow.  "The Watsons have been farmers for generations, as well as merchants.  Your own grandfather made his fortune in banking."

"Yes, well," Janet sputtered, then stopped to compose herself.  She smiled tremulously at Sherlock.  "Of course, we are all grateful that you were there to save _dear John_ in his time of need.  Although the wedding was such a hurried affair..."  Her glance drifted down to Sherlock's abdomen and she lifted an eyebrow coyly.

"The match was arranged before John and I ever met, but for the speed of it you will have to blame my brother," Sherlock said blandly.  "It was his desire to see me settled before Parliament resumes in the spring.  He is so occupied with matters of State at that time of the year."

"Your brother is in Government?"

"In some circles they say that my brother _is_ the government," he replied. 

Janet seemed to digest that and John added, "Mycroft was not the only one who desired a swift marriage.  I needed to return here to prepare for the spring planting."

Janet shrugged.  "Surely such matters could be left in Wimmering's hands?  James rarely dirtied his hands with the estate business - "

"And it shows!" John couldn't help interjecting.  Janet's mouth tightened and he said, swiftly, "Unlike James, I wasn't raised as the heir so there is much more for me to learn about their management."

An awkward silence fell over the room and John was casting about in his mind for safe topics of discussion when Price entered the room.

"Dinner is served, my lady."

"Thank you, Price," Janet said, rising from her chair.  "Young Charles will be joining us for dinner; do see that a place is laid for him?"

"Lord Sherlock had already requested that we do so, my lady," Price replied. 

"Did he?  How far-sighted of him, given that Lady Dalmahoy hadn't yet given her permission." Janet managed a smile and turned to John.  "Dear brother, would you lend me your arm to the dining room?"

John hesitated.  By rights, Sherlock took precedence as the Consort to the Lord of the house and should lead the party in to dinner on John's arm.  He glanced over at Sherlock to see him shake his head slightly and step back, so John presented his arm to escort Janet downstairs to the dining room. Georgia gallantly offered her arm to Sherlock and they followed, with Harry and Clara and then Archie behind them.

Once in the dining room, Janet took the seat at the foot of the table and then affected a look of chagrin as she glanced at Sherlock.  "Oh, dear!  I've taken your seat - do forgive me!" 

She made to rise but Sherlock shook his head and said affably, "Why stand on ceremony on your last night here with us?  And among strangers, I would feel more comfortable sitting closer to John."

John could see that Janet had wanted to make more of the matter but he forestalled the issue by pulling out the chair on his right hand for Sherlock, settling Georgia on his left across from Sherlock.  Harry and Clara took their places at Janet's left and right hand respectively, and Archie eagerly slipped into the chair between Sherlock and his father. 

Janet made a face at the empty place between Georgia and Clara saying, "It is a pity that our numbers are so uneven!  If I had known, I might have invited one of our neighbours to join us for dinner.  Miss Morstan, perhaps?"

John thought he suppressed his involuntary start at that name, although Sherlock's swift look in his direction made him doubt that his husband had missed it.  "Ah, but that would have left us with more ladies than gentlemen, so perhaps one of our male neighbours?"

"It's a pity that Colonel Moran was recalled home," Janet said as one of the footmen filled her wineglass.  "He would have been just the gentleman for the occasion.  I am certain he would have liked to meet John and his new husband."

"Colonel Moran?" John asked.  His throat felt dry and he took a sip of his wine to ease it.

"A particular friend of James," Janet said, smiling.  "Such an attractive man, and such presence!  He is the son and heir of Lord Blessington, in Ireland."

"And did he visit here often?"

"Oh yes!  He was posted to the garrison in Edinburgh, you know, with the militia.  You might have known him in in the Peninsula - he was with one of the regiments there, and he talked about the battles in such an interesting and affecting way.  But then his father became ill, poor man, and the Colonel was forced to sell out and return home.  Once Lord Blessington improved, the Colonel joined the militia.  Such a patriotic man, and so handsome in his uniform!"

Something about the name in conjunction with the war in France tickled a memory but John couldn't tease it out.  He resolved to look through his old notes and letters.

"He was here just before my dear little George took ill, and left the day before James..." Janet bit her lip and daubed her eyes with her handkerchief.  Clara laid her hand on Janet's and squeezed it sympathetically.  Janet smiled tremulously at her, then at the rest of the table.  "But let's not talk about unpleasant things tonight."

Talk was disrupted for a few minutes while the staff served the first course, but as soon as they withdrew, Sherlock addressed Janet on the subject of the Colonel, inquiring if he was still Edinburgh.

"Oh no!" Janet replied with a sigh.  "His father's health worsened and the Colonel was released from the militia to return home to Ireland.  We should invite him back for grouse season.  The Colonel is an avid sportsman and an incredible shot."

John clenched his jaw at the casual way Janet talked about extending invitations.  "We weren't planning to entertain here for some time, especially not strangers."

Janet laughed, a tinkling sound that had always irritated John.  "As if Colonel Moran could be considered a stranger!  He's a friend of the family; he sent a lovely letter of condolence when James died.  Oh, and he has married!  A distant cousin of his, descended from Sir Geoffrey Moriarty." 

Sherlock looked up with interest at that.  "Geoffrey Moriarty of Russborough?  The one whose son went mad and killed his entire family while they slept except for his youngest daughter?"

John barely refrained from rolling his eyes and wondered if Sherlock had information on every sensational murder stored in his mind.  Everyone else at the table was staring at Sherlock with expressions ranging from shock to interest. 

"Really?" Archie asked, also perking up at that.  "Why didn't he kill her?"

Sherlock turned to him.  "The younger children in the nursery shared one bed.  She was so small that she slipped between the far side of the bed and the wall so he didn't see her.  She was too terrified to make a sound, so they only found her when they were removing the bodies of her siblings."

"Sherlock!" Clara admonished.  "Not in front of the child!"

Bewildered, Sherlock looked from Archie's interested face to his mother's irritated expression, then to John.  "Not good?" he murmured to John.

"A bit, yeah," John said quietly back.

"But you didn't mind - "

"No, I don't," John replied, and in a lower voice said, "and neither does Archie.  Best not around his mother, though."

"Oh." Sherlock looked down at Archie and mouthed the word, "later".  The boy nodded and applied himself to his food.

"Well, they do say that breeding will tell," Janet said with a titter of laughter from the end of the table. 

John clenched the hand in his lap and pushed his soup bowl away.  Price made a gesture and the footmen hurried forward to clear the plates from the first course and refill the wine glasses.  Once the second course had been served, John turned to Georgia, deciding that a change of subject was prudent.

"How are the plans for your début in the fall?"

Georgia made a face.  "Mother has ordered my clothes.  I've had a hundred fittings so far, and it's so boring!  I don't mind the dancing, but being presented to society is so dull."

"I concur," Sherlock said with a nod.  "My brother has insisted that John present me at Court, and I can't imagine anything more tedious."

"Oh no!" Janet cried.  "All the beautiful dresses and jewels!  Meeting the King!  And the palace is so splendid!"

Georgia leaned forward and, in a low voice, said, "Is the King really as fat as they say?"

"Fatter," Sherlock replied.  "He wears a girdle to contain his bulk and my brother says that he creaks when he moves."

Harry chuckled at that and even Clara's lips twitched a bit, but Janet looked horrified.  "How can you talk about King George in that way?"

"Lord, Janet, haven't you see the papers!" Harry said.  "They say much worse!  Rumour is that he plans to have the Queen barred from attending his coronation this summer.  I wish that I had an excuse not to attend."

With a horrified look on his face, Sherlock turned to John who nodded.  "Yes, we'll have to attend as well.  I should inspect the robes and regalia while we are here, and we'll have to have yours made when we return to London."

"We will all have to come to London for the event," Janet said, her face lighting up.  "And there should be a party to present Sherlock to society, at least a month prior to the coronation so that it doesn't interfere.  All the rooms will need to be opened up - more servants will be needed, and the ballroom refurbished.  I never liked that wallpaper and so I told James when we had it redone.  Flowers, music for dancing, French wines now that trade is re-established - "

"I've sold the house in London," John said.

Janet stopped in the middle of enumerating the many changes that would need to be made.  "You did _what_?"

John lifted his chin defiantly.  "I sold the house in Grosvenor.  I never liked it and it was too large, a needless expense."

"Good for you, Johnny," Harry said.  "I never liked the place.  The rooms were badly laid out and hideous."

Clara nodded.  "So draughty, and the chimneys in our rooms always smoked so dreadfully."

In a low, ominous tone, Janet said, "I _liked_ that house.  I redecorated it myself.  _James_ liked that house."

"Unfortunately, James is dead.  I have sold that house and purchased another, smaller, house in Baker Street."

"Baker Street!" Janet screeched.  "Among the encroaching mushrooms and cits!  Oh, I forgot," she said, turning to sneer at Sherlock.  "You married one so I suppose it is for the best that you live among them!"

"Janet!" Clara said, horrified, turning to give John and Sherlock a stricken look. 

Sherlock said nothing, appearing unmoved as he watched his new sister-in-law with fascination, like a scientist studying a specimen in its habitat.  John, however, was looking at Janet with the set expression that his family knew meant trouble, and his hands were clenched in his lap.  Price, displaying the shrewd awareness of servants to the currents around them, made a quick gesture that had the footmen scurrying from the room before he closed the door and stood with his back to it, barring entry.  The two younger members of the party, forgotten by the adults in the moment, looked between Janet and their uncles with all the fascination of observing a wreck in progress.

"I suppose that you sold the furniture as well," Janet said angrily.  "Some of it had belonged to the family for centuries!"

"None that I could see," John replied tightly.  "In any event, I could not afford to keep it, nor the artwork.  All of it - the house, the furnishings, the art - had to be sold to pay the debts that you and James saddled me with.  As it was, they barely covered a quarter of them, and none of the encumbrances upon the estate."

"Always harping on money, mortgages, bills!" Janet sneered.  "You have the soul of a miser, grasping and mean."

"He has the soul of a soldier," Sherlock said quietly.  "And a man of honour, who pays his debts no matter the cost.  His family should be grateful for that."

John turned to stare at his husband, startled and touched by his words.  Their eyes met for a long moment and John could feel his ire start to slip away.  He smiled slightly and dipped his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

"And where am I to stay when in London?" Janet demanded, sensing that the attention had been turned from her.

John gave a short bark of laughter and turned back to her.  "I don't give a - " He paused, registering the presence of the children, and bit off the profanity he'd been about to utter.  "That is your affair.  You may hire a house or rooms at one of the hotels, or you may remain in your Dower house here in Scotland.  I have managed to save your jointure, although you will have to practice _some_ economy."

Tears sprang to Janet's eyes and she looked wildly around at the others sitting at the table.  Harry was staring down at her plate,  Georgia and Archie still looking at the adults in fascination, and Clara watching her with a troubled expression.  "You - none of you - you don't realize how - how difficult this is for me!" she said, a sob catching her voice.  She pressed her handkerchief to her lips, her eyes large as she stared tragically down the table at John.

"I do understand that it is difficult," John began, "but it's been nine months.  It is time to make a fresh start, under your own roof."

"You want me to leave the home where James and I were so happy!" Janet said tragically.  "To forget James and my darling lost babies!"  Another sob escaped from her.  "You want me out of your way!"

"That is one way of putting it," Sherlock said drily.

Janet turned to glare at him.  "This is all your fault!  You wish that I was dead!"

"No, that would actually be more inconvenient," Sherlock replied.  "We would have to sort out care for your boring children."

"How dare you!  My dearest children!"

Sherlock rested his elbows on the table, steepling his hands and staring at her over them.  "Whose names you usually don't remember.  You didn't want them but you were too cowardly to admit it to your husband, and too concerned about what society would think of you.   You rarely visit them in the nursery, and when you do you are more concerned about them wrinkling your dress.  When your other children were ill, you refused to nurse them although you enjoyed the attention their illness generated."

"I couldn't!  I couldn't stand to watch them suffer!  And my headaches!"

"Your headaches are not due to your delicate nature or exaggerated sensibilities but rather the laudanum you take in the mornings and the sherry you secretly drink at night."

"What would you know of sensibilities?" Janet snapped.  "All our family history, centuries of breeding - and then you just waltz in here and think that you can take my place!  You're a common breeder, a usurper, jumped up into a position that you don't deserve - "  
  
"That will be enough!" John said sharply, in a voice that his subordinates would have recognized - and ignored at their own peril.  He stood up from his chair at the head of the table.  "Sherlock is my husband, he is my consort, and it is _you_ who are the usurper.  And I have had enough of this - this _bullshit_."  
  
Janet gasped.  " _How dare you!_ "  
  
"You will not be staying under my roof any longer. In London, or here at Saughton," John said firmly.  "The Dower house has been ready for months.  You will take your children and your things, and you will move there in the morning."

Janet's mouth worked furiously for a moment as she sought for something to say.  Then, with an infuriated little shriek, she pushed back her chair and stormed out of the room.

John looked around at the others seated at the table who were watching him with various degrees of respect and awe and he flushed.  Then he took his seat and said, as if nothing of interest had occurred, "I believe that we have _blancmange_ and cake if anyone would like a sweet to finish their meal?"

Harry burst out laughing so hard that she nearly fell out of her chair.

* * *

The next morning, John watched from the Library window as Janet and her children drove off in the estate's carriage, followed by two large wagons carrying their belongings, Price and his wife, the chef, all of the footmen, and three of the maids.  He turned to look at Sherlock who was standing next to him, staring out at the scene.  
  
"It's possible that I over-reacted," John said, chagrined.  
  
"It depends," Sherlock replied.  
  
"On what?"  
  
"On whether or not you can make tea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The list of books are based on the [Moir Rare Book Collection in Edinburgh](http://www.nls.uk/media/896454/2010-moir-collection-list.pdf). Bee-keeping was of intense interest among Scottish landowners for about 200 or more years, starting in the 18th century and stretching through Moir's time. Moir himself was an original member of the Scottish Beekeepers' Association.


	19. Part II: Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock cope with domestic difficulties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter - but we all need a breather between the last and what is coming next

Having debated the merits of ignoring the situation for a while longer as opposed to going in search of food and drink to break their fast, John displayed the courage that had made him a soldier.  He descended the stairs to the basement level to ascertain just how bad the situation was.  
  
It had been many years since he'd visited the kitchen but he found it was little changed, except for one of the newer stoves that had been installed at the request of the recently-departed French chef.  Two young women were huddled at the work-table, looking through a handful of receipts, while a third washed dishes at the sink.  Wiggins sat at the end of the table, breaking his fast with a large chunk of bread and cheese.  
  
"'Morning, m'lord," he said easily.  "Kettle is warm on the hob if you be wantin' a cuppa."  
  
The two women swung around with squeaks of surprise, scattering the receipts about the floor.  "My lord!" one of them - Elsie, John thought her name was - stammered.    
  
The sudden appearance of his Lordship frightened the scullery maid doing the washing up so much that she dropped the dish she was washing and went into strong hysterics, making it impossible for anyone to be heard.  Wiggins finally advised the hysterical girl to stop nabbing her bib and towed her out of the room, no doubt to recover her wits in solitude.    
  
"My apologies for disrupting your work," John said once quiet had been restored.  "I wondered if we might obtain a cup of tea and a bite to eat?"  
  
Elsie and the other young woman exchanged worried looks.  "Begging your pardon, m'lord, but there's nothing to be had.  Nancy was looking for something to cook but - "  She gestured helplessly at the cards scattered on the floor.  
  
John took that to mean that Nancy was the kitchen maid but not an under-cook, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  "No need to go to that much trouble," he replied.  "It's my fault we're in this situation.  A bit of bread will do - or might there be any eggs?"  
  
There were, indeed, eggs, and John immediately commandeered a large frying pan and set to work.  Nancy fetched lard and the eggs, watching with wide eyes as John set to work frying them.  It wasn't the first time he'd done this - in the Peninsula, the members of the mess were frequently called upon to assist with the meals.  And as he cooked, he told them a not-too-exaggerated story about the time  Sgt. Murray had gone foraging for eggs and had fallen afoul of the ancient mistress of the farm and an equally ancient rooster.  It had the desired effect of lessening the tension in the room, and by the time he turned out the first batch of eggs, the two young women were giggling as easily as if he was one of the footmen.    
  
Sherlock prowled around the kitchen, peeking into cabinets and poking through the pantry as if it was a particularly interesting crime scene.  His child-like joy in his discoveries was endearing and, more to the point, produced a rasher of bacon that went into the pan with the rest of the eggs.  
  
Much more at ease now, Nancy boiled more water for the teapot and produced the tin containing the best breakfast tea.  Sherlock abandoned his exploration for the moment to observe her preparation of this, watching each step intently before pronouncing it "dead easy".  John and the kitchen maid exchanged an amused look and shook their heads, and John resigned himself to tasting many failed experiments on Sherlock's part.  Wiggins returned and laid the table for the five of them, and they had a very merry little meal of eggs, bacon, and bread.  With his tea - much better than they'd been served since their arrival - John toasted good riddance to the departed.  
  
"That's as well as it may be," Sherlock said as he added sugar to his second cup of tea. "However, we will all find it extremely inconvenient to run this house with only three staff members."  
  
"Me mum was cook here, in the day," Nancy ventured to say.  "Livin' wi me brother dinna suit her as she an' his wife are forever pulling caps."  
  
"Mrs. Campbell?" John asked and, at Nancy's nod, he turned to Sherlock.  "She's a splendid cook.  None of your frippery dishes but good solid meals."  He turned back to Nancy.  "If she's willing, I would be delighted to retain her services as our cook.  Take the afternoon off to speak with her - Lord Sherlock and I will be riding over the estate today and will dine with Wimmering tonight.  He might have some suggestions, and if not, we'll stop in at the registry office in Edinburgh on Monday.  We will need a housekeeper and butler as soon as possible."  
  
Sherlock shrugged and that, John knew, would be his first and last thought on the subject.   At least, John reflected with a surprising amount of affection, Sherlock would never subject him to tedious discussions of the servants' deficiencies over the breakfast cups.  That those conversations were more likely to include gruesome descriptions of murders, past and present, didn't alarm him in the slightest and, not for the first time, John wondered if he should be more worried about that.

* * *

 

They separated to change their dress for riding and John arrived first at the stables.  He was relieved to see that the staff losses there were much smaller, confined to Janet's coachman and groom.  Ross greeted him warmly, informing him that the hired coach horses had been returned to Haddington.  The two coach-horses remaining in the stables had met with Hugh the coachman's approval and they would be ready to take John and his new spouse to church the next morning.  A discreet inquiry let John know that Hugh had settled in well with the rest of the stable's staff and was becoming a prime favourite among them with his stories of life in London.  
  
Sherlock arrived and, after they were mounted, John was pleased to see that his new husband did know how to handle a horse.  He led the way down the pathways toward the Home farm where they were met by Wimmering.  The estate manager was in a cheerful mood and eager to show them over the estate, pointing out the repairs and improvements that needed to be made.  The day was clear and crisp, the snow well-packed under the hooves of their horses, making it a pleasure to be out of doors despite the cold.  They were well-received by most of the tenants, Sherlock keenly observing them all in that way of his, and John had no doubt that he had absorbed more of their histories than even Wimmering knew.    
  
What really captured Sherlock's attention, though, was the apiary, and when they reached the bee-yard, he dismounted to get a closer look at the hives.  John watched as his husband cautiously and slowly examined the dome-shaped objects, looking at them first from above and then lying on the ground to peer up into the basket.  After nearly half an hour, he returned to them, scowling as he mounted his horse again.  
  
"This won't do," he said, clearly irritated.  "Two of the skeps are damaged beyond repair and abandoned, and another has a dead cluster.  The other three are intact - whoever added the ekes to them had a good idea although they could have been executed better.  Wildman and Huber have better designs; the Wildman treatise is in the library but I'm uncertain about the Huber.  Well, I'll have Mycroft use his contacts in Switzerland to obtain a copy."    
  
Wimmering was staring at Sherlock with open-mouthed amazement but John just grinned and shook his head.  "Of course you will.  Bee-keeping manuals from Switzerland."  He gestured toward the bee-yard.  "Is it salvageable, then?"  
  
"Just barely," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed in thought.  "There's a gentleman in Ayrshire who has proposed new designs based on Wildman - is Ayrshire near here?"  
  
"Within a day's travel," Wimmering said, rubbing his chin as he looked eastward.  "Sixty miles or so.  Other side of Glasgow."  
  
"Capital!" Sherlock said, rubbing his hands with glee.  "I will write to Mr. Kerr this evening to arrange a visit before we return to London."  
  
Pleased that Sherlock would have something to amuse himself with during their inevitable future visits to Saughton, John readily agreed.  Wimmering shrugged a little, as if resigning himself to the fact that his employers were mad, and led the way back to the Home Farm.  
  
Mrs. Wimmering was apparently watching for their return because they had barely shed their outer-wraps before her maid was offering them mulled wine to thaw out their chilled bodies.  John had met Mrs. Wimmering briefly on Boxing Day, when he'd made the rounds of the estate, and he was pleased to renew their acquaintance.  Mrs. Wimmering was a little woman, barely over five-feet tall, her slim form betraying that she had never borne a child.  She wasn't beautiful but there was a pleasant look to her face, with wisps of greying auburn hair curling about her head, and it was easy to see why her English-born husband had fallen for her upon his arrival at Saughton as a young man.  
  
That sense of warmth and beauty and comfort extended to the house as well.  They were quickly settled into chairs by the fire with their spiced wine and questioned about the success of their day with genuine interest.  Before the inquiries could grow dull, dinner was announced and they sat down to the best meal John had eaten since his return to England. It wasn't overly fancy but it was delicious, and John was pleased to see that Sherlock ate a great deal as well.  He could feel himself relax for the first time in weeks, and because of that he found himself sharing the story of their domestic difficulties.  Somehow, in the retelling, it took on a humorous quality and by the time he finished, Sherlock was chuckling as well as their hosts.  
  
"You poor dears!" Mrs, Wimmering said, drying her tears of mirth with her napkin.  "I will ask Cook to send over meals until you have hired one of your own.  And as to a housekeeper and butler..."  She frowned a bit in thought and then turned to her husband.  "My dear, what about Mrs. Turner's children?"  
  
Wimmering's face lit up.  "The very ones!"  He turned to John.  "You will remember the Turners, my lord.  They retired when his late Lordship returned to take up the title."  
  
John frowned a bit.  "Aren't they getting a bit on in years?"  
  
"Oh, yes, certainly - and Turner died several years back.  But their eldest son - his name was Will and he was a footman here for many years when you were a lad, you might remember?  He became under-butler up at Hopetoun, then married and took up a post with one of the younger Ramseys - I can't recall which one - but they've all closed up house and moved away to London.  He and his wife are staying with his mother at the moment, but they are looking for a new position.  They would be the very thing!"  
  
John considered this and, automatically, turned to look at Sherlock for his opinion.  Sherlock frowned slightly as if saying, "Well, what do you expect me to do about this?" but then he nodded in response.  John turned back to his hostess.  "We would be interested in interviewing them for the post, if you could let them know."  
  
Mrs. Wimmering beamed at them both.  "Well, that is settled, then!  I will leave you gentlemen to your port."  
  
They stood politely while she rose and left the room, then resumed their seats as the servants removed the cloths and brought out the port.  Wimmering poured them each a glass, then raised it in a toast.    
  
"To your very good health, Lord Saughton, and yours as well, Lord Sherlock."  
  
John nodded his thanks. "To the year ahead - may the fortunes of Saughton improve."

Sherlock added, "And most of all - to Saughton Farms Honey."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot this - [a lovely little article about historical bee-keeping ](http://regencyredingote.wordpress.com/2011/09/09/how-a-tiny-fraction-of-an-inch-saved-millions-of-lives/). I loved the description of "bee space" - I imagine that Sherlock finds that fascinating. And there are references to known progressions in the science of bees, as well as the books referred to in my chapter.


	20. Part II: Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with several different domestic issues

Mrs. Wimmering was as good as her word, and when John and Sherlock returned from Sunday service there was a nice little supper waiting for them.  Later that afternoon, Mrs. Campbell came to the house with her daughter - and a pie - and terms were settled for her to resume her post as Cook.  
  
The following morning, Mrs. Turner appeared, accompanied by her son and his wife.  John duly asked for their references and was questioning them about their previous service when Sherlock strolled into the study.  He looked over the pair, then turned to John and raised an eyebrow.  
  
"This is Mr. and Mrs. Turner," John told him.  "They are interviewing for the positions of butler and housekeeper."  
  
"Then you had best hire them on the spot," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Begging your pardon, sir," the younger Mrs. Turner said, " but you know nothing of us."  
  
"On the contrary," Sherlock replied, turning back to the pair, his glance rapidly darting over them.  "You are both local - we already know that Mr. Turner was a footman here when he was younger, under his father's tutelage.  His father was, by all accounts, an honest and hard-working man who tolerated no deprivations among the wine cellars or the staff, so it is to be expected that his son shares the same beliefs.  This is born out by the fact that you both left your last position rather than going to London with the family - I imagine that the master of the house was inclined to trifle with the under-staff when in his cups.  Mr. Turner's only vice is a fondness for tobacco, which I cannot fault - your clothes retain the scent of tobacco smoke.  As for Mrs. Turner the younger," he said, turning to her, "you met when you were a maid in the same household and insisted on a proper courtship, after which you left service to raise a child - a son, I believe - returning to service when your mother-in-law was able to assume his care.  You have a fondness for sweets, and it would be best to have that tooth attended to before the pain becomes worse.  Your son is apprenticed to an apothecary although he would like to study medicine.  You are worried that he will marry too young, and hope that what you can save will enable him to begin University soon."  
  
The Turners all looked stunned.  "How did you know all of that?" Mr. Turner asked, then turned to his mother.  "Have you already spoken to them on our behalf?"  
  
She shook her head vigorously.  "I haven't spoken to Master John - I beg your pardon, my lord - Lord Saughton since he left here as a young man."  
  
"It is a talent of Lord Sherlock's," John said quickly, concerned that the superstitions of small village life might cast a more sinister light on Sherlock.  "He knows how to look at clues in dress and behaviour, to put them together to create a bigger picture.  He has worked with the constables and Thames police in London."  
  
Mrs. Turner the elder suddenly chuckled.  "I doubt that Her Ladyship liked that!  It's  no wonder that she up and left."  Her son and daughter-in-law laughed too, and any tension in the air dissolved.  
  
"Did I get it right, then?"  Sherlock asked, in the manner of a child seeking reassurance for a clever performance.  
  
The younger Mrs. Turner's grin widened.  "Most of it," she said and paused, then added. "Tessa's a girl-child, though."  
  
"A daughter!" Sherlock exclaimed.  He turned away, running his hands through his hair, annoyed with himself.  "There's always something wrong!"  
  
John watched him for a moment, feeling a fond irritation for the man, then turned back to the Turners.  "If that hasn't put you off, would you be willing to take the position?  You would have to build the staff from scratch, I'm afraid - we have only one housemaid left - and neither of us have the slightest notion of how to manage a household.  We won't be doing much in the way of entertaining and will spend much of the year in London."  
  
The younger Turners exchanged looks that spoke of years of easy familiarity, then Mr. Turner turned back to John.  "We would be very pleased to take the position, my lord."  
  
John smiled, relieved.  "That's good.  That's very good.  Whenever you'd like to start - I can ask Elsie to show you your rooms so you can determine if any repairs or improvements need to be made before you move in."  
  
The Turners rose from their chairs.  "No need to trouble yourself, my lord," Turner said, already falling into the proper tone of address.  "We can find our way around the place still, I believe."  He bowed and the ladies dropped curtseys, and then John was left alone with Sherlock.  
  
He turned to Sherlock, letting his inquisitiveness surface.  "I followed some of that - the tobacco scent and the tooth-ache; even I could see she was favouring one side of her mouth.  But how did you know about their real reason for leaving their last position?  And their daughter?"  
  
Sherlock gave him an irritated look, similar to the 'how are you able to breathe when you're so stupid?' one that he usually favoured Donovan and Anderson with.  "They are both of an age and started service at the same time, yet the younger Mrs. Turner has not risen as rapidly in rank as her husband, although she appears just as worthy as him, so she must have quit service for a time.  There are three reasons for that: illness, a dislike of service, or children.  She appears healthy and she went back into service, so it must have been a child.  Given the number of years that have passed, that child would be old enough to have taken a position in their last household, but there was no attempt to introduce her to service there, so there was some concern that she might be trifled with."  
  
John frowned a little, going over that in his mind.  "Perhaps they knew their daughter didn't wish to go into service - many people don't.  And if she is apprenticed to an apothecary with an interest in medicine, that would explain it.  How did you know about that?"  
  
"The younger Mrs. Turner has been treated with some simple homoeopathic remedies for her toothache, and the older Mrs. Turner recently burned the back of her hand, which has been treated and bandaged - not expertly, but with some degree of skill.  Therefore, as they haven't seen a doctor but have been treated for two separate issues, there is a person with medical knowledge in their household.  The simplest explanation is usually the correct one."  
  
"It will be difficult for a young woman to get into medicine without a sponsor," John mused.  "I wonder if any of my professors are still teaching.  I will have to visit there when we go into Edinburgh this week, see if I can put in a word."  
  
Sherlock looked satisfied with that and wandered off again, most likely to the library, and John turned back to his paperwork which seemed to have multiplied in his absence.

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, John paid a visit to the stables to ascertain its current state, something he hadn't had time to do on Saturday.  Several of the hunters had been sold already, and the riding horses that remained were well-formed.  He spent a pleasant hour looking them over and approving the coach-horses retained for use with the carriages.  There was a barouche in the stables as well as Mycroft's carriage, in decent enough condition although it wouldn't support the trip to London in future.  He would either have to borrow Mycroft's carriage again for future trips or think about purchasing a travelling coach of their own.  
  
Upon leaving the stables, he caught sight of the gardener on the far side of the gardens, which put him in mind of the elder son.  He had promised Wimmering that he would speak with the young man, and now seemed as good a time as any.  He crossed the terrace and Sean Martin looked up as he approached, then started to get up from his knees.  
  
"Don't, please," John said.  "I was just looking for your son."  Martin looked puzzled and John added, to clarify, "Hamish?  Wimmering wanted me to talk to him about an apprenticeship?"  
  
Martin's puzzled look cleared.  "Aye, me lord.  He'll be around the side t'house, trimming the hedges."  
  
John thanked him and followed the walkway around the house, easily finding the lad shaping the hedges.  Hamish saw him coming and straightened up, tugging at the brim of his cap as John approached.  
  
"Afternoon, m'lord," Hamish said respectfully.    
  
"Hamish," John said, looking around at the foliage.  "Looks very nice."  Hamish looked very pleased at that, and John decided just to plunge straight into the matter.  "You enjoy this sort of work, then?   Gardening?"  
  
Hamish shrugged but nodded.  "It's restful like," he said.  "Helps me think."  
  
"And what do you think about?" John asked.  Hamish shrugged but didn't answer.  "Do you ever think about your future?"  
  
"Sometimes," Hamish admitted.  "Don't seem much point, though.  M'future will happen whether I think about it or not."  
  
That didn't seem very promising, but John persisted.  "Mr. Wimmering told me that the late Earl had promised you an apprenticeship?  With the head gardener at Old Saughton Home Farm?"  
  
Hamish frowned.  "His Lordship promised many things," he said shortly.  
  
That sounded a great deal like James, who had always been quick to make a promise to get his way and then forget about it once he'd gotten what he wanted.  John wondered how many messes like that he would have to clean up.  
  
"Well, I am here to make good on my brother's promises, as much as I can," John said firmly.  "Are you interested in being apprenticed to the manager there?  Taking over from Jenkins when he retires?  Because if you are, then I am prepared to sign the articles of apprenticeship on your behalf.  But if there is something you'd rather do, some other profession you'd prefer to pursue, then I will back you in that."  
  
"I'd like to go to the Old Home Farm," Hamish said, after a moment's reflection.  He turned his attention toward the Long Road and frowned.  "I could take Mother with me.  It would do her good to get away from here."  
  
"Oh."  John hesitated for a moment, wondering if the apparently idyllic atmosphere at the Lodge hid something ugly.  He was reluctant to get in the middle of what was apparently a family problem, but it was his duty as both the landlord and a doctor to make sure that his people were not being harmed.  "Is your mother...in harm's way, living here?"  
  
"Nah, but she does get queer ideas, livin' here and broodin'."  
  
"Then your father isn't harming her?"  
  
Hamish looked puzzled by that.  "'T'would be a bit hard, that, bein' that he's dead."  His expression cleared.  "Ah, you mean my step-father."  
  
"Sean Martin isn't your father?  Then who - "  John cut off his question, flushing a bit.  "I do beg your pardon, that's not any of my business."  
  
"A'course it is," Hamish said easily.  "His Lordship made no secret of it.  Set me and m'brother and Our Mother up with the Lodge."  
  
John's mouth fell open and he stared at Hamish in disbelief.  Hamish was James's son?  Now that he looked at the young man, it was clear that James was his father, for he had the same openness and attractiveness of features, the same colouring with his dark hair and brown eyes.  And his mother, the gardener's wife, had been his mistress?  He wondered if Janet had known and couldn't decide if it was worse if she had known that the woman living at her gates was her husband's former mistress, or if she hadn't known and had been laughed at behind her back.  Because it was clear that others had known - this was the reason for the queer looks Wimmering had given him during their discussion.  And now that he knew, John felt a bit uncomfortable at the idea of his brother's mistress and by-blow living on his doorstep.  
  
However, he had an obligation, so he pushed aside his own discomfort.  "Hamish, if you don't want to be a gardener - if you want to be set up in a shop, or a trade, or a profession instead, please, be frank with me."  
  
"I like gardening," Hamish said simply.  "I would like to be Manager on the old Estate when Mr. Jenkins retires.  It suits me, bein' outside like this.  Couldn't breathe if I was in a bank or mercantile, or wearing a cleric's collar."  
  
"And your brother?" John asked, trying to figure out which one that would be.  The boy who had run across the road?  But surely he was too young;  he would have been born after James married Janet.  Not that being married would have guaranteed James's fidelity, but John really didn't want to start feeling sorry for Janet.  
  
Hamish shook his head, his face shadowed.  "Seamus went away years ago.  He wouldn't have been content in a trade, either," he said shortly.  
  
Sensing that this was a delicate subject, John returned to the apprenticeship matter.  He promised to settle the matter with Jenkins and bid farewell to the young man before slowly making his way back to the house, deep in thought.  And he would have words with his sister about her failing to warn him.

* * *

 _Dear Johnny,_  
  
_Don't be an arse.  I wrote to you about James's bit on the side years ago, when he first returned from Ireland.  Well, she was his mistress in Ireland, not after he married Janet, so I suppose that's not really 'on the side'.  He brought her back with him, and their two boys, and then married her off to the gardener.  I'm certain that I wrote you about it.  Well, fairly certain.  I was drinking quite a bit back then._  
  
_The other boy - don't remember his name only that it was Irish, and James was puffed up about him.  He was a good-looking lad, could charm you as soon as look at you, but there was something...not quite right about him.  Couldn't be trusted around small animals, if you understand my meaning.  James couldn't see it, of course, not until the boy seduced both the nurse-maid and Nanny, and him being barely fifteen.  And don't give me that look.  Yes, I was fifteen, but I only trifled with those my own age.  Nurse Spender was nearly double the boy's age, and her negligence caused poor little Jane's death.  I am sure that I wrote you about this.  The boy was sent away - the Saughtonhall Asylum, I heard, although Clara says she heard that he was sent back to family in Ireland, and good riddance to him._  
  
_Clara has fixed upon Saturday for the party, coinciding with the full moon, and she says that shades of purple are perfectly acceptable.  There's to be music and dancing, although I expect that James would care little for that.  Janet says that she won't attend, so that's a bit of good news._  
  
_Archie wishes to be remembered to Sherlock and says that he's finished the experiment, whatever that means.  Clara is pleased as anything that he's buckled down to his studies, so I am to give her love to Sherlock as well._  
  
_Your loving sister,_  
  
_Harry Watson-Dalrymple_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events that Harry refers to are described in more detail in "Watson's War". James's return with his mistress is in [Chapter Four](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325806/chapters/2886442) and the events with the nursery-maid are in [Chapter Six](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325806/chapters/2927818)


	21. Part II: Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the household begins to pull together, John and Sherlock take care of business. John learns more about his brother and his brother's past.

The Turners took possession of the household the next morning, and before the end of the week the house was running smoother than John recalled since his mother's passing.  Elsie was promoted to head maid and two more young women hired from town, and under the younger Mrs. Turner's instructions they began a thorough cleaning of the house.   Carpenters and other tradesmen were hired in to make the repairs that the house desperately needed. The Cook restocked the larder and began turning out tasty, non-fussy meals.  A footman and a page joined Turner to flesh out the male portion of the staff, and Wiggins reported that the morale Below Stairs had vastly improved.  
  
Above Stairs was a slightly different story.  While John appreciated the improvement in meals and the removal of the mould, living in a constant state of chaos was playing hell on his nerves.  It seemed that he had only to get settled in a room before some member of the staff - in the politest way possible - would begin turning the room next door upside down.  Mrs. Turner took over the refurbishing of the former Countess's bedchamber for John's use with enthusiasm and he was repeatedly consulted on his preferred colours, fabrics, and textures.  The fact that he had little knowledge of such matters and less interest didn't seem to matter to anyone, even Sherlock, who threw himself into the new project with apparent enthusiasm.  When his new husband joined Mrs Turner in a serious discussion of shades of purple versus blue for bed-hangings, John decided that the man needed to be rescued from himself.  
  
And so on Thursday, they set off for Edinburgh in the town carriage, their new coach horses displaying their paces.  Sherlock showed an avid interest in everything from the lay of the land they drove through to the historical buildings they passed by on their way to the University.  John pointed out places he remembered from his days at the University and found himself looking at everything again through the eyes of his youth.  He smiled with especially fond reminiscence as the carriage passed by a certain terraced house across from the Nicolson Square Gardens, knowing that Sherlock was watching him closely and had most likely ferreted out every secret of his youth from the twitch of his eyebrows or the tilt of his head.  But as Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself, John found that he didn't care.

They dismounted from the carriage outside the Royal College of Surgeons so that they could walk around the buildings.  John encountered several old school-mates, now instructors at the College or practising doctors in the city, and was pleased to introduce his husband to them.  John was relieved that they refrained from sharing embarrassing stories about his school days, although he wasn't sure if that was because of his new title or because Sherlock seemed the type to discourage such confidences.  Finally, John came upon his old mentor, William Stewart, fresh from an anatomy lecture.  Dr. Stewart was delighted to see him, shaking his hand heartily, and invited them back to his office for refreshments.  He poured them all a glass of whiskey so that he could properly toast the newly-weds, wishing them all the best.  
  
"Not often that one of our shining lights returns, unless it's to teach, so what brings you here, Lord Saughton?" Dr. Stewart asked.  "Here for a look about the old place?"  
  
"Yes, in part," John replied.  "The daughter of my housekeeper and butler would like to study medicine, only she can't afford the fees."  
  
"Nothing easier," Dr. Stewart replied.  "You'll want to put her in for the Watson scholarship."  John looked blank and he explained, "Your brother set it up nearly ten years ago.  I'm a trustee so I am familiar with the particulars.  It's been used three times: once for a tenant's son to study theology, and for a groom to become a classics scholar, and a maid who studied anatomy.  She was the first recipient of the scholarship in 1813 - Mary Hooper was her name."  
  
Sherlock looked intrigued by that.  "Would that be Molly Hooper?  Works at St. Barts in London now?"  
  
"Yes, that would be our Miss Hooper," Stewart said proudly.  "She was young when she began here, barely fifteen, and an excellent student.  I thought she might become a doctor or a surgeon, but she was more interested in anatomy and pathology.  She won an internship at Padua when she'd finished here, studied pathology there, before going home to London two years ago."  
  
"Home to London?" John asked.  "Then she wasn't from here originally?"  
  
"No, she was a London girl, hired as a nursery maid by Lady Saughton, but she didn't suit or didn't like the work, so when the late Earl set up the scholarship in your name, she came here to study."  
  
"In my name," John said, surprised.    
  
"Oh, yes.  Very proud of you, the late Earl was.  Used to brag about his 'clever brother Johnny' and said you'd be Surgeon General of the Army one day."  
  
John's face shadowed, remembering how James had teased him while he'd been laid up after being shot and how it had irritated him at the time.  Now he realized that it had been James's ham-fisted way of expressing his affection and admiration.  He wished that he could go back in time and....do what?  The problem was that there was nothing he could have done differently.  
  
"So, there wouldn't be any problem with Miss Turner applying for the scholarship?" he asked.  
  
"Not at all.  She'll have to interview, same as everyone else, but have her come in and apply."  
  
"I'll pass the information to her parents," John said, rising to his feet.    
  
He shook hands with Dr. Stewart before he and Sherlock left to meet their carriage.  Sherlock was deep in thought as they drove through Old Town and John had to say his name twice before he looked over at him.  
  
"You seem abstracted," he said.  "I've asked twice if you would like to get a bite of luncheon before we visit my uncle."  
  
"Not hungry," Sherlock said, his brow wrinkled in thought.  "Curious that Molly Hooper left your family's service like that."  
  
John shrugged. "Not everyone likes domestic service.  The Turners' daughter has no interest, either.  Now that Beta women are allowed formal education, a number of them prefer the freedom to earning their wages in other ways."  He hesitated and then added, "There was a death in the nursery at that time: James's eldest child, an Omega daughter.  The nanny was blamed for negligence.  If Miss Hooper was the nursery-maid, perhaps she was too distraught to stay."  
  
"Or your detestable sister-in-law turned her off as well."  
  
"Hardly seems likely if James was willing to pay for her education," John pointed out.    
  
Sherlock nodded agreement, but he continued to look lost in thought.  
  
"How do you happen to know this Miss Hooper?" John asked.  
  
"Hmm?" Sherlock came out of his thoughts and glanced over at John.  "Oh.  She works with most of the Coroners in London, processing the bodies from crime scenes, among other tasks.  I have found her to be an invaluable source for body parts for my various experiments, as well as information when the authorities refuse to work with me."  
  
John turned to stare out the window as he absorbed this information.  Oddly enough, he felt a bit of jealousy that Sherlock had someone else to help him with the Work.  It was ridiculous - they had known each other for barely a month, and it was to be expected that Sherlock had other resources, but still...  
  
"Molly Hooper is a Beta with an appalling lack of self-worth.  She is reasonably intelligent and competent in her profession, but she is Not. My, Type."  Sherlock said, popping the "p" of the final word.  "Do stop being an idiot."  
  
John was curiously cheered by that and couldn't help grinning as he stared out at the streets of Edinburgh.  They visited several of the merchants, primarily to arrange for supplies for Sherlock's lab, and arrived at Alexander Carnegie's bank office shortly before four in the afternoon.  They were shown into his uncle's office and Alexander pushed away his work, rising to greet them with wide-open arms.  
  
"Johnny, my boy!  Aye, but you're lookin' a fair sight better than last I saw you."  Alex gave John a warm hug, then extended his hand to Sherlock.  "And you must be his bonnie new husband.  Welcome to the family, laddie."  
  
Sherlock's eyes had widened as he took in the sight of the unusual garment Alexander was wearing but he merely said, as he shook the banker's hand, "I see that you are a close associate of Sir Walter Scott and a member of his Celtic Society."  
  
"Aye, that I am, but how did you know?" Alexander asked.  
  
"Your adoption of the ancient Highland dress, among other things.  Although the proscription was lifted forty years ago, its usage by the general populace outside of Highland military regiments has dwindled, and it has never been popular in these lowland areas.  However, Sir Walter - among others - has promoted the more general use of this 'kilt', and the founding of Societies to revive the 'romanticism' of the Highland way of life."  
  
Alexander chuckled.  "You have the knack of it, lad.  Your brother wrote that you have been assisting the local authorities with their investigations?"  
  
"He's amazing, Uncle," John said proudly.  "When I first met Sherlock, he was in the middle of a serial murder investigation that had everyone baffled.  He solved it, too, and put the man in prison."  
  
"Your nephew neglects to mention that he was am integral part of the investigation," Sherlock said, although he visibly preened under John's praise.  "He is a very brave man."  
  
"That he is, and I look forward to hearing all about it over dinner at my house." Alexander ushered them out of his office, gave last minute instructions to his clerk, then followed them down to the waiting carriage.  
  
Dinner at his uncle's house was always an event to relish, for his cook was superb and his wine cellar even better.  Alexander was an excellent host, interested in their recent adventures, and by turns amused and appalled by the story John told.  When the tale was done, which coincided with the port and cigars, Alexander sat back in his chair and declared it an entertaining business.  
  
"You should write down these adventures of yours, laddie," he said to Sherlock.  "That was as good a story as I've ever seen performed on the stage."  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "Not my area.  John is much better at spinning out a tale, although he tends to romanticize events and leave out the most interesting points."  
  
John snorted and would have argued the point, but it was growing late and they had an hour's drive home in the cold ahead of them, so they bid farewell to Alexander after John had extracted a promise from him to dine with them the following Sunday.    
  
"An interesting man, your uncle," Sherlock said as the coachman drove them home in the moonlight, wrapped up in rugs and with a heated brick at their feet.  John made a murmured sound of agreement, too full of good food and drink to make much conversation.  "John, have you a garment such as your uncle was wearing?"  
  
"A kilt?  Good heavens, no!"  
  
"Pity."  
  
John blinked, not certain that he'd heard that correctly.  He glanced over at Sherlock but the other man was staring out the window and John didn't feel that he could ask for a clarification.  However, as he turned his own attention to the other window, he felt a warm glow of _something_ deep inside.

* * *

 

Sherlock's supplies were delivered the following day and he disappeared into his new lab to set it all up, the door closed firmly against the rest of the world.  John tried to settle down to his own work, but between the dullness of the paperwork and the sight of the closed door, he found himself unable to concentrate.  He gave it up as a bad job and went out to the stables.  
  
Wimmering was supervising the delivery of building materials at the Home Farm and he hailed John as he rode past, inviting him to come up to the house for tea.  Since John was chilled and feeling at loose ends, he accepted the invitation, and before long he was sitting in the pleasant little parlour as Mrs. Wimmering brought out freshly-baked scones and biscuits, as well as jam and clotted cream.  
  
"How are your domestic matters working out?" she asked, passing him a cup of perfectly prepared tea.  
  
"Very well, thank God!" he replied.  "Your Mrs. Turner was the answer; her son and daughter-in-law are setting things to rights.  Or at least I think that will be the result, eventually."  
  
Mrs. Wimmering gave him an amused look.  "Things a bit at sixes-and-sevens at the moment?  It'll all settle down, you'll see."  She poured another cup for her husband, then passed around the plate of biscuits.  "And where is Lord Sherlock?"  
  
"Setting up his laboratory for experiments.  We stopped by the shops yesterday for supplies and he's busy organising it all."  John gloomily stirred his tea.  
  
Wimmering and his wife exchanged looks and then Wimmering began talking about the improvements to the estate that were already under-way as well as plans for the future.  John allowed himself to be distracted and, at the end of an hour, felt a bit more settled.  He and Sherlock had been spending a great deal of time in each other's company, what with the case and the long journey north and then dealing  with domestic difficulties.  It was only natural that he would feel a bit at loose ends with Sherlock's interest turned to something else.  Once he got accustomed to being on his own again, he would be right as rain.  It was only getting through this sticky bit of adjusting that was the trouble.

At the end of an hour, he excused himself to return to his work at the house.  Wimmering walked him out to the shed where his horse had been stabled, and as they passed a bed of early snowdrops, John suddenly recalled the business about the gardener.  
  
"I spoke to Hamish earlier this week," he said.  "He is still interested in the apprenticeship, although I let him know there were other options."  John looked straight at Wimmering.  "You might have mentioned that he was my brother's bastard son.  It would have saved a bit of awkwardness."  
  
Wimmering flushed.  "I beg your pardon, my lord, but I had thought that you knew."  
  
"Well, I didn't, but it's been sorted."  John gathered the reins of his horse then stopped and turned back to Wimmering.  "Hamish mentioned his brother, Seamus.  He was James's as well, wasn't he?  What am I saying?  Of course he was; only James would give both his sons his name.  That doesn't matter, though.  What I meant to ask was, what happened to Seamus?  Hamish didn't say and Harriet wasn't clear."  
  
Wimmering sighed.  "Seamus Murphy was a bad lot.  There was something...not quite right about him.  After the incident with the nursery - you heard about that, my lord?  Yes.  His Lordship had him committed but he charmed his way out of there so his mother made arrangements to send him home to her people,"  
  
"What about the nursery staff?  Why did my brother send the nursery-maid to University?"  
  
"Miss Hooper?"  Wimmering looked surprised for a moment.  "Ah, you've spoken to Dr. Stewart at the University."  
  
"Yes; the Turners' daughter wishes to study medicine and I went there to see what arrangements needed to be made to pay her fees.  Why did my brother set up that scholarship for a nursery-maid from London?"  
  
"Because Lady Saughton sacked the lot of them, without a character.  And Lord Saughton knew what his son was like.  Nurse Spender was pensioned off, and Miss Hooper given her choice of futures."  He looked at John.  "Much like you offered Hamish."  
  
John absorbed this information.  "Are there any others?  Of James's, I mean."  
  
"Not that his Lordship knew about and, say what you will about him, he took responsibility for his dependants."  Wimmering smiled at John.  "Nothing to worry about, my lord.  Hamish is content, Seamus gone, and the Dowager settled in her own house.  All is as it should be."  
  
And as John mounted his horse and headed back to the stables, he was certain that the shiver down his spine was due to the cold.

 


	22. Part II: Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John introduces Sherlock to his extended family and neighbours, and in the process, something from John's past is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes a lot to "A Civil Contract" by Georgette Heyer, and is much more of a blend than earlier chapters.

Dalmahoy House was widely admired as one of the finest large houses in lowland Scotland, and an invitation to a party there was highly sought after.  Add to that the natural curiosity of the neighbouring families about the new Earl of Saughton and his husband, and John was resigned to the fact that Clara's party would be one of those fashionable squeezes that he usually avoided.  He would have avoided this one, had it been possible, except that the declared purpose of it was to launch Sherlock into Edinburgh society.  
  
They were to spend the night at Dalmahoy as the _soiree_ was expected to last late into the night, even though the distance between the two houses was only seven miles and the moon would be full.  Clara had insisted, however, and as both Georgia and Archie had begged for a visit, John had relented.  They arrived in the afternoon, early enough to have tea with both the younger members of the family and their maternal grandmother at Hatton, the Dower house.  That part of the agenda, at least, appealed to John. Margaret Dalrymple, nee Hope-Vere, the Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy, was a cousin of John's mother and had been a prime favourite of his since childhood.  At just shy of fifty, she was still a Beauty, a fixture in Edinburgh society, and much more lively than her daughter, Clara.  In fact, John saw some of Georgia's characteristics in her grandmother, more than anything she had inherited from her parents.  The Dowager was much given to straight speech, and after a little bit of verbal jockeying, both she and Sherlock got on like a house afire.  
  
After tea, they accompanied the younger members of the Dalrymple family to Dalmahoy house on the other side of the park.  Sherlock's eyes widened when he saw the size of the house, with its grand entrance and multiple wings.

 

  
"Very grand, isn't it?" John said.  "The third Earl of Stair was extremely wealthy and had it built for his youngest brother - he was a Dalrymple but he called it Dalmahoy house for his young wife's family line.  Their son was both the Dalmahoy and Dalrymple heir, and their grandson was Clara's father."  He stared at the house for another moment as their carriage approached it down the long drive, then turned to Sherlock.  "Are you regretting that Saughton is not larger?"  
  
"Good lord, no!" Sherlock said, tones of horror in his voice.  "We can barely manage servants for what we have - we would be completely undone if we had to deal with more."  
  
John chuckled at that, and then the carriage was pulling up to the front portico.  Archie jumped down without waiting for the steps to be lowered and Georgia looked like she wished she could do the same, as did Sherlock.  Both waited till the steps were pulled down, however, but Georgie revived her spirits by hopping up the front steps as if she was no older than Archie instead of a young Alpha nearing her come-out.    
  
Clara was waiting for them in the upper hallway, looking happy and slightly frazzled at the same time.  "Good, you're here.  Mrs. Danvers will show you to your rooms so that you can wash and change for dinner.  Twelve couples will sit down at seven, and we are expecting another fifty families for the party."  She appeared delighted by this news although it made John shudder internally.  
  
"That should make a decent assemblage for dancing," Sherlock said with satisfaction.  "I shouldn't want for partners, as John is disinclined to dance."  
  
"You can't dance!" Clara said, appearing scandalised.  "John is in mourning - we all are!"  
  
"Don't be absurd, Clara!" the Dowager scoffed.  "It's been nine months since James's death, and it's perfectly proper for both John and Sherlock to dance tonight."  Turning to Sherlock she added, "Country dances only, until you receive the nod from one of the Patronesses of Almack's.  My good friend Clementina will be at the party tonight and I will speak to her about the matter."  
  
Clara frowned in disapproval and went off on the pretext of attending to anther matter, and her mother sighed.  "Don't know what's got into that girl.  She used to have the liveliest spirit, but now.... Doesn't take after me - or her father, for that matter.  I'd think her a changeling were she not the image of my James."    
  
The Dowager handed them over to the housekeeper who guided them to the family wing on the second floor where they'd been given a suite of rooms:  two bedrooms with a dressing room in between where Wiggins would stay.  As usual, Wiggins attended to Sherlock as he prepared for the evening to follow, and John took care of himself.   He did allow Wiggins to give him a final look-over as he had a keen eye for details, a habit he'd learned on the streets, suffering him to straighten the set of John's coat across his shoulders and to twitch his cravat into a more elegant fall.  
  
Clara had forgone a formal receiving line, for which John thanked God, and they gathered in the Large Parlour to greet the assembling dinner guests.  Nearly all were known to John: two uncles and a handful of cousins with their spouses, a few friends of the family, and of course Margaret and Georgia, who was excited to attend her first grown-up dinner party - at least until supper.  So it was thirteen peers, an Admiral, a General, the Solicitor General of Scotland, and two members of the Lord Advocates' office  and their spouses who sat down to dinner that evening, and if John had known that ahead of time, he might have had many sleepless nights.  Thankfully again, Clara had foregone strict propriety and had seated John and Sherlock beside each other, and John managed to keep Sherlock from offending anyone of importance.  And, with the soiree to follow, they were not inclined to linger over dinner.

However, Sherlock was not yet allowed his dancing.  Once the covers were cleared and the doors opened to the other guests, John was charged by Clara with making certain that Sherlock was introduced to all of the important people of the area.   After John introduced Sherlock to another of his uncles, this one the Earl of Northesk, Sherlock grabbed his sleeve and pulled him aside.  
  
"Are all of these people your aunts and uncles and cousins and such?"  
  
John glanced around the small, elegant salon they were currently standing in.   "Not in here, no - these are mostly the Edinburgh society types.  But in general at this party?  At least half, yes."  
  
Sherlock frowned as he took in that idea.  "How...odd.  You wouldn't find that at a London party, would you?  Or maybe you would, as proficient at procreation as your family appears to be."  
  
"Oi!" John said indignantly.  "I imagine that's the same way in most smaller areas."  And then he turned to greet his cousin, Charlotte, whose husband Charles had been a sheriff and wanted to ask Sherlock about the London murders, and the subject was dropped.  
  
They had moved to another salon in their gradual meandering toward the ballroom, and John had just introduced Sherlock to another of his many cousins when there was a commotion at the doorway that caught his attention.   He turned to see who had entered the parlour and his heart fell into his boots.   Mary Morstan stood in the middle of a group of younger people, looking ravishing in pale blue gauze over an under-dress of white satin.  One of the members of her party leaned closer and said something in her ear, to which she responded with that lovely laugh of hers.  
  
"An ice maiden!  Oh, how absurd!  When I am so hot!  Lord, what a crush!"  Mary turned as she spoke and saw John, gave a sharp gasp that was audible to everyone in the room, and fainted.  
  
John saw her sway and was able to start forward, to catch her as she crumpled.  He stood, bearing her light weight in his arms, as the salon went suddenly silent.  
  
"That's right, John," said Sherlock's matter-of-fact voice, breaking the silence.  "Lay her on the sofa and if one of you would open a window instead of gawking, it would be infinitely more useful.  The heat in this room is quite oppressive."  
  
Almost as pale as the fair burden in his arms, John obeyed.  One of the ladies held out her fan and Sherlock began applying it with vigour as he said, "One of you locate a member of - " He paused and glanced up at John's stiff countenance.  "What is the lady's name?"  
  
"Miss Mary Morstan," John said replied, feeling as if his voice was coming from a long distance away.    
  
Sherlock frowned slightly and turned to the crowd hovering around the sofa.  " - locate a member of Miss Morstan's party and let them know that she is overcome by the heat.  As for the rest of you, if you cannot assist, do stop staring and clear the room.  It's a wonder more people haven't succumbed to this heat."  He looked up at John who was still looking like a statue.  "John, fetch a glass of water, if you please."  
  
Relieved to have something to do, John immediately left the room, and by the time he returned, Mary had come round and was leaning against her mother's shoulder.  "So stupid!" she murmured.  "Couldn't breathe.  The room is so stuffy!"  
  
John, handed the glass of water to Sherlock and found himself regarded by his husband's cool gaze before Sherlock turned back to Mary.  
  
"Here, Miss Morstan.  This should help."  
  
"Thank you - so kind," Mary murmured, looking up under her eyelashes at Sherlock for a moment before looking past him at John, then she turned her attention back to Sherlock.  "You - you're John - Captain Wats-  - Saughton's h-husband?"  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock said with some acerbity.  "You were invited to this party to meet me."  
  
Unable to listen to any more, John took a few steps away, ostensibly to give Mary some privacy.  Most of the other guests had discreetly withdrawn from the room but one or two remained, including the lady who had leant Sherlock the fan.  He found himself standing next to her as she levelled her quizzing glass at Sherlock.    
  
"Your husband?" she asked.  Her voice held the unmistakable touch of a Scottish accent and something about her face was familiar.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," John replied.  
  
"Admirable man, quick head on his shoulders," she said decisively.  "Unlike the rest of those empty-headed clunches."  She looked sharply at John now, and he felt like a specimen being examined under glass.  "Meg Dalrymple says that your husband has helped solve crimes in London with the constabulary?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am," he repeated faintly, wondering who this woman was who had the temerity to call Harry's mother-in-law 'Meg'.  
  
"Unusual hobby, but I like to see a young Omega with spirit, not the usual namby-pamby lot.  And Sally Jersey will be beside herself when she hears."  She chuckled at that, adding, "You won't remember me, Lord Saughton, but our mothers used to visit together, and I believe I once stole your toy horse."  She held out two fingers for him to shake.  "Lady Gwydyr, but you might remember me as Clementina Drummond."  
  
John shook her hand, dazed to realize that he was face-to-face with the former Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, one of the patronesses of Almack's and the one reputed to be the greatest stickler for propriety.  "Delighted to renew your acquaintance, Lady Gwydyr," he said.  "You're right; I'm afraid I don't recall that particular incident, but I do remember that you were one of Helen's supporters when she was married."  
  
"I was sorry to hear about your brother's death, although he seems to have made quite a mess of things," she said, and for the first time he heard a hint of disapproval in her cool voice.  "However, my husband says that you are going about the right way to set things straight.  Tell me: when do you return to town?"  
  
"We haven't fixed a day yet, but I believe it will be early in March.  I'm to take my seat in Parliament."  
  
She nodded brisk approval at this and said, "Then I shall hope to further my acquaintance with you and your husband in London."  
  
At this point, Sherlock, who had left Mary to her mother's care, joined them, and John was quick to introduce the Baroness Gwydyr to his husband.  
  
"You did just as you ought, Lord Sherlock," Lady Gwydyr said to Sherlock as she accepted the return of her fan.  "When you return to town, I shall be pleased to visit you, and I will send you cards for Almack's."  
  
Sherlock bowed in response, a slight crease of his brow telling John that he didn't quite comprehend the honour extended to him, but he said nothing for which John was grateful.  Lady Gwydyr went off on the arm of her husband and Sherlock turned to John inquiringly.  
  
"Heiress to the Earl of Perth," he explained.  "She and my sister Helen came out together and were bridesmaids for each other's weddings.  Apparently our mothers were thick as thieves and probably second cousins or some such thing.  She's one of the Patronesses at Almack's and, as she has given you her approval, you are set in Society."  
  
"Mycroft will be pleased," Sherlock said drily.  "Does this mean that we can finally dance?"  
  
John agreed and, careful not to look back at Mary where she rested on the couch, he led Sherlock to the ballroom where dancing was taking place.  Despite his dislike of dancing, John was relieved not to have to converse with his husband about the scene that had just taken place.  Already he could hear the whispers as they passed through the crowd, the rumours that had sprung up in the wake of Mary's faint.  Thank God for Sherlock's quick reaction and his disinterested handling of the matter!  It would do much to lay the rumors, and it now was up to John to act as though nothing had happened in order to shield Mary from malicious tongues.  And Sherlock as well, of course!  How unbearable it would be for his proud Omega husband to have people saying behind his back that, not only was he married for his fortune, but that his husband had a decided _tendre_ for another.  
  
That thought spurred his resolve to do his duty to his husband that evening with a semblance of a cheerful face and heart.  And so he stood up for two slow dances with Sherlock before handing him off to Georgia for the next two livelier jigs, then he went in search of partners for Sherlock who could provide decent conversation without stepping on his toes.  For himself, he was thankful that his old injury gave him the excuse to avoid most of the dancing, although he claimed Lady Gwydyr for a stately set of dances to cement that connection towards Sherlock's future.  He saw Mary once, through the crowd, recovered from her faint although there was a hectic flush to her cheeks that supported her claim to be susceptible to the heat.  He didn't approach her, though, even though his heart ached at the sight of her laughing with other beaux. 

John was prompt to claim Sherlock's arm to take him into supper and saw him settled next to Georgia and her partner before going in search of refreshment for their little table.   After supper, John partnered Sherlock for two more dances and then, feeling his duty done, sought out his older cousin, the Earl of Hopetoun, who had also served in the Peninsula as a General on Wellington's command staff.  They soon gathered a crowd of men about John's age, most of them in one of the military services, and fell to discussing the late battles and the current politics as concerned Wellington.  This drew in another of his cousins, John Hope, who was familiar to him even though he was several years younger for they'd been to the Royal High School together.  Hearing that the younger man was now a deputy to the Lord Advocate, John caught hold of his sleeve and dragged him off to introduce him to Sherlock.  As the two younger men were of an age and both inclined to frankness in speech, they hit it off tolerably well, and soon had gathered a knot of folk around them as they discussed the newest items on the crime blotter.  By the time the assembly wound down, the young advocate was promising to consult Sherlock on any interesting problems that occurred while they were in Scotland.

Leaving Harry and Clara to see off the last of their guests, John escorted Sherlock upstairs to their rooms.  As they slowly strolled down the hallway, John was suddenly stricken by the thought that Sherlock was owed an explanation for the scene earlier that evening.  His heart sank and he was suddenly unbearably tired; the last thing he wanted to do was tell Sherlock about his past with Mary.  
  
He paused with Sherlock outside the door to his husband's  room and said, heavily, "Sherlock, about earlier this evening..."  
  
Sherlock paused with his hand on the door knob and turned back to him, frowning.  "What?" His eyes flickered over John's face.  "Oh.  You believe that you owe me some sort of explanation.  How tiresome."  
  
"I - what?"  
  
" _Your_ behaviour was without censure," Sherlock said, then touched John's cheek lightly.  "John, I hardly expected that I was your first attachment."  He withdrew his hand and opened the door to his room.  "Good night, John."  
  
"Good night, Sherlock."    
  
John stood staring at the door for a long moment before going to his own room, relieved that he didn't have to assay any painful explanations.  And for the second time that night, he was grateful to his husband. 

He entered his room and sat down on the bed, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he had ever felt in his life, even during the longest battlefield surgeries.  He had steeled himself to meet his lost love at some point during their sojourn in Scotland, but not so unexpectedly.  And the look that she had given him from across the room, so full of heart-rending loss, had pierced him to the soul.  Instinct had made him move quickly to catch Mary as she fainted, but as he had laid her on the sofa, he had seen the look of curiosity on the faces of those in the room, forcing him to take rigid control over himself.  Sherlock had come to his rescue, as always, with orders that John had gratefully followed.  Those orders might have shown a certain insensibility, but it was preferable to a scene in public, even if Sherlock had been entitled to throw one.  
  
Just for a moment, John was extremely irritated with his former love and wondered what had possessed Mary to attend this party where she was bound to run into him.   Where, in fact, the sole purpose was to introduce John's new husband to their neighbours and Edinburgh society.  The thought that she might have _wanted_ this to occur, that she had wanted the world to know that she had been abandoned by John Watson in his pursuit of a wealthy spouse, popped into his head although he quickly dismissed it.  However, the thought, once planted, was not easily banished.  As he lay in bed for many sleepless hours, he found that his resentment for the hurt given to Sherlock began to slightly outweigh his empathy towards Mary.    It made sense, of course; he would see his former love only at the inevitable society event and could avoid many such occasions.  Sherlock, however, was his husband and must be faced across the breakfast cups and dinner table.  Harmony at home _must_ be more important than the lost dream of romance.  
  
With that thought firmly in place, John rolled over and convinced his weary brain to go to sleep.

* * *

 

Despite the fact that he'd only managed a few hours of sleep,  John found his way to the breakfast table where it happened that he was the only adult member of the family to arise that early.  Georgia was there and, after a moment's appraisal, she silently poured him a cup of tea and added milk before passing it to him.  
  
"Bless you, Georgie," he said when he'd drained the cup and was holding a second.  "You are definitely my favourite niece."  
  
She giggled at that.  "Too much wine?  Or dancing?"  
  
"Too little sleep.  I am getting too old to keep such hours."  
  
"Or you've just forgotten the knack," Harry said as she entered the room, hiding a yawn behind her hand.  She accepted the cup of tea her daughter handed her with a kiss to her cheek.  "Thanks, Georgie.  Now I know why I tolerated you when you were spotty and irritating."  
  
"Papa!" she admonished but returned the kiss.  She turned and gave John another appraising look.  "Does Uncle Sherlock look as bad as you?"  
  
"I don't know," John said automatically, then flushed slightly.  It was unusual for an Alpha/Omega pair in their first year of marriage to sleep apart since a priority of such a marriage was to produce the first offspring quickly.  Fortunately for him, Georgia didn't seem to notice anything odd about this, although Harry gave him a significant look over her tea cup.    
  
"Sherlock isn't much for breakfast," he added, although since their marriage they had shared the breakfast table more often than not, even if Sherlock did little more than drink tea.  
  
Archie's face shadowed.  "Uncle Sherlock said he'd help me with my experiment this morning."  
  
"And I will," Sherlock said from the doorway.  He walked into the room and picked up John's teacup, taking a sip from it and then making a face.  "Not enough sugar."  
  
"That would be because it is _my_ tea," John said mildly.  He poured another cup, adding milk and sugar to Sherlock's taste, and handed it to him.    
  
Sherlock drained the cup and set it back down, then turned to Archie.  "Shall we?"  
  
"May I come along, Uncle?" Georgia asked.  John doubted that scientific experiments held much interest for her but both of the young people were fascinated by Sherlock for some reason.  John could hardly blame them.  
  
After the three left the room, Harry dismissed the staff and took a seat next to John.  "Not sharing a bed, John?  Or is just that you are being extremely circumspect under my roof?"  
  
"None of your business, Harry."  
  
"No, but then there is the matter of Miss Mary Morstan suddenly fainting when she came into the room where you were."  
  
"The heat - "  
  
"Was not that stifling.  It is February, after all."  
  
John sighed and looked down into his teacup.  
  
"Does Sherlock know about her?   Did you tell him anything about that?"  
  
"He guessed that there was someone whom I couldn't marry but not the name.  Although after last night, I doubt that there can be much doubt as to her identity."  John rubbed his hand over his face tiredly.  "Harry, what am I doing?  An arranged marriage based on financial need on my side and a desire for independence on Sherlock's.  Do you think we have a chance of contentment if not bliss?"  
  
Harry shrugged as she poured another cup of tea and added sugar.  "At least as much a chance as any of us."  She fiddled with her spoon for a moment before setting it aside.  "Clara and I were a love match; you know that.  She was the only one for me from the moment I first saw her, even though we were children.  Mother had liked the idea even though our father and Clara's mother tried to talk us out of it, but I wanted Clara and she wanted me.  When we first married, we were mad for each other - I couldn't keep my hands off her.  And Georgie came so fast and was so healthy.... We thought we had the world.  Clara had always wanted a houseful of babies.  But then she couldn't carry the rest to term, no matter what she did, and her grief made her sharp and critical of everything, especially me.  And _my_ grief made me drink, which made her hate me even more."  She sighed and drained her cup.  "I gave it up and we tried again, had Archie, but he was the last.  Clara can't have any more children - not that it matters.  She won't let me touch her any more, not even in public.  I believe that she would divorce me if she could."  
  
"Harry..." John said, stricken by the grief in Harry's voice.  
  
Harry shook her head.  "I didn't tell you this for sympathy, Johnny.  You think you lost your chance at love, but there's no saying that you would have been happy with Miss Morstan.  It is easy to say that one would think the world well lost for Love, but when the pennies have to be pinched and the larder is empty, it is harder to follow that ideal.  And there are no guarantees in life.  If you and Sherlock like each other - which is clearly the case - and have interests in common, then you have a greater chance at domestic felicity than most."

John nodded, dredging up as much of a smile as he could manage on short sleep and with an aching heart.  "Shall we go see what this 'experiment' is about?  If Sherlock and Archie manage to blow up a wing of the house, Clara will never forgive either of us."

Harry nodded and they both put away heavier topics to spend a few hours in more light-hearted pursuits.  But on nights when the dark seemed lonelier than ever, John would sometimes bring back the memory of this conversation and ponder the truth of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dalmahoy House is now a hotel - you can find it on the web if you are interested in what they have done with it since the real Dalrymple family died out and sold it to the Earl of Morton (who, coincidentally, had a descendent who married Helen Watson, the last of the Watson line.)


	23. Part II: Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is called upon to help solve the mystery of a series of "dancing men" left at one of Edinburgh's most influential investment houses, a mystery that might have murderous implications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a mesh of "The Dancing Men" and "The Blind Banker", with the bit from "The Bruce Partington Plans" that TBB used, fused into my world-system. A number of changes were made. Obviously, the Chicago Crime ring had to be changed to reflect the Napoleonic time period, and I disliked the Black Lotus based ring in TBB plus the stereotypes. So I hope that I have struck something in-between. Also, I disliked the ending of "The Dancing Men" as I felt that it showed a slant towards Patriarchal values - it was all right that Abe Slaney lived and was only given hard-labour because Elsie had been his promised-woman, and he only meant to frighten her a little but not really hurt her, and besides, Hilton shot first. (There are just so many things wrong with that verdict that...argh!) So everyone gets what I think is their Just Reward in the end. (Except for John & Sherlock. They still have to wait awhile.)
> 
> As for the Code - well, I know that I found the Dancing Men too easy to solve when I first read it, and I liked the idea of a book code. The railway guide used in TBPP wouldn't work because we don't have trains yet, so I cast about for something nearly every English household would have. Since Gideon hadn't yet seeded his Bibles everywhere, this was my next best guess. Hope that it makes sense. (For anyone checking out the passages, I used the 1662 version of the book since it would have been the one in use at the time.)

They returned to Saughton on Monday, with nothing more said about the unexpected event that had marred the party.   Several days passed with morning visits from the local members of society and their various activities to keep them busy, but John began to worry that the lack of crimes to investigate would soon drive Sherlock to boredom.  Just before the end of the week, Turner brought in the mail while they were breakfasting at home, and the question of boredom was averted for the rest of their stay in Scotland. 

The majority was given to John but three letters were set beside Sherlock's plate.  He picked up the first letter, grimacing as he glanced over the direction written on the outside and then tossing it aside.  John looked up from the correspondence he was sorting through and glanced over at the letter curiously.  
  
"Mycroft," Sherlock said, his lip curling as he spoke.  "More smug that usual - he's wormed his way up another rung in the political ladder.  Also, crime has been on the decline during our absence.  Dull.   You may read it, if you wish.  There is unlikely to be anything of a personal nature."  
  
John picked up the letter although he declined to open it.  "How did you determine all that?"  
  
"It is not difficult to construct a series of inferences and thus come to a conclusion.  Once I have laid them out, you will say that is is all so absurdly simple."  
  
"I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind."  
  
"Very well."  Sherlock took back the envelope.  "Mycroft has franked his own letter, something he did not have the privilege to do when we left London, therefore he has been promoted to a position that affords that privilege.  His smugness can be seen in the way he wrote out the direction.  In general, his handwriting is passable and hurried, but here the copperplate is nearly perfect, the letters well-spaced and rounded.  Therefore, he is feeling particularly at ease and content with the world, which means that Lestrade has been spending most of his nights at Russell Square.  He would not do so if there were cases requiring his attention, so we may infer that the crime rate has dropped significantly."  
  
John was tempted to say "how simple!" but since he'd sworn that he wouldn't, he said the first thing that came to mind instead.  "Lestrade doesn't live at Russell Square?"  
  
Sherlock looked taken aback, as if that was the last thing that he'd expected John to say, and he congratulated himself.  "No, he has his own little house, but now that his daughter is grown and married, Mycroft has been trying to persuade him to give it up."  
  
"Lestrade has a daughter?  Then he was previously married."  
  
"Obviously."  Sherlock tossed down the letter and turned his attention to another.  "A reply from Mr. Kerr!"  He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, smiling in delight at its contents.  "He says that he would be pleased to show us around his apiary whenever we like, although he advises that early March would be best for viewing them.  When are we returning to London?"  
  
"Uncle Alex is giving a card party on March 10th, so we can leave on the 12th.  Where is his farm?"  
  
"South of Aberdeen."  
  
"Then we should be able to make that in one day if we have an early start."  
  
"I will write that we will arrive on Monday the 12th, then, and visit them on the 13th," Sherlock said decisively.    
  
"Best inquire about suitable lodging in the area," John said.  "We will want to stay two nights and continue our journey to London on the 14th, through Scotch Corner.  I'll inform Hugh Coachman so he can start making plans for changes.   I only hope that the roads will be better."  
  
"If Mycroft has anything to say about it, they will," Sherlock muttered.  He opened the third letter and pulled out an enclosed slip of paper, staring at it for a long moment before turning back to the content of the letter.  When he finished reading, he handed the enclosed paper to John saying, "What do you make of this?"  
  
John studied the line of figures on the paper, figures that looked like a child's drawing of stick figures in various poses.  "It's a child's drawing, isn't it?"

                                                     

 

"So one would think, although apparently there has been more than one set of these drawings left over the past two weeks, always these same figures."  
  
"Really?"  John studied the figures again with a frown.  "They must have some other significance, then.  A code of some sort."  
  
"Precisely, but the meaning behind it escapes me.  There are not enough of these figures to establish a pattern."  
  
"Where did you come by this?" John asked as he handed the drawing back.  
  
"A friend of your cousin, John Hope, with the Lord Advocate's office, has written to me, asking if I might look into the matter.  It may be just a prank, although it has apparently frightened the victim's husband to the point of collapse."  Sherlock frowned as he examined the drawing again.  "I must speak to the man in person."  
  
"Nothing simpler," John replied.  "Send Cartwright with a message.  If he takes the little mare, he can be back with an answer before noon."  
  
Sherlock hurried off to compose the message while John alerted the page and sent a message to the stables to ready the little mare.  Cartwright had already proven to John's satisfaction that he was a trustworthy young lad, and he was at home on a horse's back as if born to ride.  So he was certain that the lad would return with a message before long.

* * *

  
Cartwright returned before noon, as foretold, but with a smart little curricle driving in his wake.  The gentleman driving it gave his name as Hilton Cubitt, relinquishing his hat and coat to the butler, and he apologised for intruding without an invitation. He was a tall, well-featured man of middle age, whose clear eyes and fresh complexion spoke of a life lived without dissipation.   
  
"I would have sent a reply with the lad and waited on your convenience," Mr. Cubitt explained, "but the matter has me so worried that I couldn't rest before I put the whole matter before Lord Sherlock."  
  
There was such a look on profound worry on his kind, earnest face that John hastened to reassure him, sending a footman for Sherlock as he escorted Mr. Cubitt into the drawing room and rang for refreshments.  Mr. Cubitt refused to eat a morsel but, when pressed, accepted a glass of Madeira "to steady his nerves" as they waited for Sherlock to join them.  
  
Sherlock swept into the room, hastily pulling on his coat over his shirtsleeves, so quickly had he come from his little laboratory.  "Mr. Cubitt, I presume?" he said, shaking hands with their visitor.  "What has occurred now that has so frightened you into this uncharacteristic haste?"  
  
"You are correct when you say that I am not given to sudden starts and fits," Mr. Cubitt replied.  "Deliberation and careful thought has always been a matter of pride, except where it concerns my Ellis.  It is my husband who is afraid, sir - frightened to death, but he won't say why."  He turned to John saying, "You might say that I should force his confidence, my lord, but I cannot.  There has always been honesty and equality between us, and I will not betray his trust in me nor treat him as a child."  
  
"Perhaps if you will tell us the story from the beginning?" Sherlock said, gesturing toward a chair before the fireplace.  
  
Cubitt sat, sighing and raking his hands through his hair as if to organize his thoughts.  "To begin with, I am not a man of great wealth, but I am known to have a good head for business and investments - that is my occupation, you see.  I pride myself on my reputation, and my guidance is frequently sought by the larger banking houses here in Edinburgh.  My work takes me to London several times a year, where I stay with friends who are also involved in finance.  Through them, I met a widowed friend of my hosts as well as her nephew and ward, Mr. Ellis Patrick as he was then known.   We were much in each other's company and I soon lost my heart to him, although I was quite without hope that anything would come of it.  He is an Omega, you see, and a young man, while I am a Beta in my middle years.   I could hardly compete with the Alphas who must surely court such an exceptional young man, for not only is he attractive but he has a lively wit and such a quick intelligence that it is a pleasure to talk with him.  I resolved myself to friendship alone but also found reasons to make the journey to London more frequently than is my wont, just to spend a few hours in his company.  Then, a little over a year ago, he spoke to me in as frank and honest a fashion as I have ever heard, confessing the warmth of his feelings for me.  I was delighted to assure him that it was the same with me, and we were shortly married in a private ceremony before I brought him home to Scotland.  And for the past year, we have lived in as much domestic bliss as ever a couple might find.  
  
"Before we married, he spoke to me frankly about his past.   You see, Ellis was born and raised in Halifax, in the Colonies, although he is now an orphan with only an aunt to call family.  'My father had some very disagreeable associations', he told me, 'and I wish to forget all about them.  I swear that I have nothing to be personally ashamed of, but with that you will have to be content and not question me about the past, for it is very painful for me to recall.'  I was content to take him at his word, which is why I cannot press him now to tell me what troubles him.  But I can tell you about the odd events that have transpired over the past month,"  Mr. Cubitt said, clearly growing agitated as he spoke.

He pulled out his pipe and, after an inquiring look to us, lit it and began smoking.  The action seemed to calm his nerves for after a few minutes he was able to speak again.

"It began with the arrival of a letter two months, with a postmark from Halifax.  I thought that it must be from a friend but Ellis turned deadly pale at the sight of it and threw it into the fire unread.  I thought that perhaps it held some unhappy news but I am not a man to demand to know my spouse's every thought or action so I let it be, but I tell you, gentlemen, that from that day, my husband has not known an easy moment.   Then, nearly two weeks ago, I found a set of drawings like that I sent to you, Lord Sherlock, scrawled with chalk on the front doorstep.  I assumed that they were some child's drawing and had the maid scrub them away, thinking nothing more of it.  The next morning, however, they were back.  I copied them down so I could inquire of the local lads, but they had no knowledge of the drawings.  These drawings continued to appear - on the front step, on the window sill, on the stable door, always the same message.  I mentioned the matter to my good friend, John Hope, still thinking it a prank or an act of spite, and he advised that I send a copy of the drawing to you, Mr. Holmes.  I thought it no more than an intriguing puzzle, and wanted it solved to satisfy my own curiosity."  
  
"What changed your opinion on the matter?"  
  
"Yesterday morning, someone came into our work premises before we arrived and scrawled a new set of images with paint across the panelling in my office.  I thought it the work of someone with a grudge against me and determined to turn the matter over to the constable.  But then Ellis arrived to take lunch with me, as he does every Wednesday as we close at noon, and as soon as he saw the figures he fell into a dead faint.  That frightened me to death for Ellis is not one of those Omegas given to the vapours, and a more steady soul I have yet to meet.  When we brought him 'round, he clung to my hand and begged me not to leave him.  I took him home and placed him in the care of his manservant, but he would not have me out of his sight for a moment, and walked about all last night with a haunted look on his face, his prayer book clutched in his hands.  He was near tears with fear and exhaustion, and begged me to take him away to Italy or Spain.   Finally, we had to resort to laudanum this morning to compel him to rest - that is the only reason I was able to come here, and I dare not linger long, lest he wake and find me gone."  
  
"An interesting story," Sherlock said after a moment of silent thought.  "Don't you think, Mr. Cubitt, that your best plan would be to make a direct appeal to your husband, to ask him to share his secret with you?"  
  
Hilton Cubitt shook his head.  "A promise is a promise, Lord Sherlock.  If Ellis wished to tell me, he would.  If not, it is not for me to force his confidence.  He is my spouse, not a ribbon-clerk to be ordered about.  However, I feel justified in making inquiries on my own account."  
  
"Your feelings do you credit," Sherlock said, then added, "We must hope that you do not live to regret them.  Tell me, have you heard of any strangers loitering around the streets near your home?"  
  
"No, ours is a quiet neighbourhood outside of the city."  
  
"Any unusual clients at work?"  
  
"No.  We rarely take private clients - my partner and I provide services to banks and merchant associations.  There have been no new clients of any sort for over a month."  
  
"Do you have a copy of the most recent message?"  
  
"No," Cubitt replied.  "I had no time to copy it out before Ellis's arrival, although I left instructions that it was not to be touched.  However, these messages were written on the stable door this morning."  He pulled a set of papers from his notecase and handed them to Sherlock.  
  
"Excellent!" Sherlock said, quickly scanning the documents.  "Were these together or separate?"  
  
"Separate - the first message was on the left door panel and the second on the right panel."

He passed them to John who carefully studied the copied messages.  They were brief, shorter than the first message.

The first message was three characters.                     

And the second only two.          

 

John handed them back to Sherlock, who turned to Hilton Cubitt.  "Very well.   I will take the case.  We will go to your office this afternoon to look at the most recent message.  In the meantime, should any more appear, copy them and send them to me immediately."  
  
"I am inclined to arm my servants and put them in the shrubbery around the house," Mr. Cubitt said grimly, "and when this fellow comes again, give him such a hiding that he will leave us in peace."  
  
"I believe it is too dark a matter for such remedies," Sherlock replied.  "I caution you against trying to take matters into your own hands, Mr. Cubitt.  Unless I am mistaken, there is more than simple mischief at work here.  Your very lives could be at risk - perhaps you should heed your husband's suggestion and go abroad."  
  
"And what is to keep this fellow from following us?  No, best to face the matter on home ground," he said firmly.  
  
Sherlock sighed but said, "Very well.  Leave these papers with me.  We will visit your office and attempt to come to the root of this matter.  In the meantime, I would advise you to keep close to your husband but avoid taking direct action."  
  
Hilton Cubitt nodded and rose, shaking their hands once more.  "I will do as you instruct, Lord Sherlock," he promised and took his leave.

* * *

 

Sherlock preserved his professional manner until their visitor had left, although John could see that he was excited.  He rushed off to his lab and John followed, interested to see how his husband would unravel this mystery.  Sherlock pinned the three slips of paper to the wall and pulled out paper and pen to begin tackling the problem.

"This cipher is entirely new to me - and I have made a study of over one hundred separate ciphers," he said aloud, giving John leave to enter and listen.  "The object in all ciphers is to conceal the message.  Applying the rules of secret writings, the character appearing most often in the English alphabet is 'E', however, substituting that letter for these characters appears to result in nonsense.  Substituting in the next most common letters yields nothing as well."  
  
John studied the figures.  "The third is very short - only two letters.  I  can think of few words that short - 'no', or 'go' perhaps?"  
  
"Yes, I had noticed that, but substituting 'O' for that figure in the other drawings doesn't help, and that would mean that the second message ends in 'N' or 'G' and is only three letters long."  Sherlock threw down his pen.  "It is no use.  We do not have enough data yet to decipher this message.  We shall have to see if the message at Mr. Cubitt's office yields better fruit."  
  
They called for the carriage and within the hour they were entering Sanderson Investments.   Sherlock gave his name to the clerk at the front desk and a few minutes later they were being shown into the office of Hilton Cubitt's partner.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes!   It is you!"  The man behind the desk was the perfect opposite of Hilton Cubitt, tall and slender where Cubitt was more average in height and figure.  He might have been called handsome but for the rather false smile on his face.  He got up and came around the desk.  "When Cubitt said who was coming - how long has it been?"  Without waiting for an answer, he turned to John.  "Sebastian Wilkes.  You must be his...friend?  Colleague?"  His left eyebrow quirked up as if inviting John to share in the joke of Sherlock having friends.  
  
John had never taken such an intense dislike to anyone before in his life.  "Husband, actually," he replied, affecting the same cool manner he'd seen James display when someone got too familiar.    
  
Sebastian Wilkes gaped and Sherlock smirked.  "You haven't been reading the society papers, have you, Sebastian?  You always did tend to shirk your studies.  May I introduce John Watson, the Earl of Saughton?  John," he said, turning his attention to his husband, "Sebastian Wilkes and I went to Shrewsbury together."  
  
"Really?" John turned back to Sebastian and raised an eyebrow in return.    
  
"By God, yes!" Sebastian said, attempting a rally.  "He used to have a trick - "  
  
"It wasn't a trick," Sherlock said softly.  
  
" - could tell your whole life story just be looking at you."  
  
"I know; I've seen him," John said simply.  
  
Sebastian continued, a little desperately now, "You'd come down to the Hall in the morning for breakfast and this odd fellow could tell who'd been up to tricks the night before.  Sherlock here - "  
  
"Viscount Saughton," John interrupted, in the quiet tone that had been known to make soldiers shake in their boots.  "Unless - " He turned to Sherlock.  "My dear, have you given your old...schoolmate permission to call you by name?"  
  
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up.  "No, I don't recall that I have."  
  
John turned back to Sebastian.  "Then I believe that we will just be about our business.  If you would show us to Mr. Cubitt's office, Mr. Wilkes?"  
  
Scowling, Sebastian opened the door to his office and called sharply for the clerk, ordering him to show them to his partner's office.  The door closed sharply behind them and John couldn't help the grin that crossed his face.    
  
"That was a bit unnecessary," Sherlock said quietly from his side.  "But - thank you."

John gave him a surprised look, wondering if no one had ever stood up to Bully Boys like Wilkes for him before now.  He didn't say anything, however, just followed in Sherlock's wake as he swept across the floor toward the other office.   The clerk unlocked the door to Hilton Cubitt's office and they entered. 

The scrawled figures were clearly apparent on the wood panelling across from the door, where they'd be seen upon entering the room.  There were six of them, a different pattern than the ones they'd seen although a few of the characters had been repeated.  They looked like they'd been painted onto the wall instead of inscribed, the colour bright yellow against the dark wood.

                   

"Tarring brush," Sherlock murmured.  "The sort used to coat ropes on ships."  
  
"A sailor?"  
  
"Or someone who recently travelled by ship - from Halifax, for example.  Written with a smallish hand - you can tell by the size of the strokes and the spacing - so possibly a woman or a small man."  Sherlock pulled out a note-case and jotted down the figures, comparing them to the ones he'd already recorded.  "Same code, obviously.  Six letters, possibly ending with an 'O', if that third message is 'No' or 'Go'."  He shook his head in frustration.  "It makes no sense!  The message should be longer - is it a foreign word?  No, unlikely.  Cuckoo? Quatro? Adagio? Bamboo? Borneo - no, no!."  He thrust the note-case into John's hand and began pacing back and forth in the room, muttering words under his breath.  
  
John stared down at the scribbled figures, frowning.  Something about them seemed odd.  "There aren't many of these dancing figures, are there?  I mean, the messages are short but still...I only make out - five, six, seven - seven different ones.  Shouldn't there be more variety, to correspond to twenty-six letters - "  
  
Sherlock whirled back around, grabbing back the note-case and scanning the figures again.  "Brilliant, John!"  
  
"I am?"  
  
"They're not letters, they're numbers!"  Sherlock turned back to the wall, eyes scanning the figures painted there avidly.  
  
"Who sends a message with numbers?" John asked.  "And what does that mean?"  
  
"It's a book code," Sherlock said.  "Numbers for page or line or paragraph."  He picked up a pen off the desk and drew a line on the wall between some of the figures.  "The flag on the figure marks the end of a set, single or double digits, so it's not a very large book or it's divided into small sections - chapters, or perhaps stanzas in a poem.  Our prankster must know that Ellis Cubitt has the same book so that he can decode the message correctly.  And Ellis does - he wrote the third message, on the right panel of the stable door, in reply to the second message.  He must have learned the code in the Colonies, so the book is something that is common to both sides.  With the possibility of different print houses, the page number must not matter, so it must be something divided into sections."

"The Bible?" John asked.

"Possible, but I believe it must be something smaller, easier to carry. Something any household might have."  Sherlock closed his eyes, concentrating as if picturing a bookshelf, then his eyes snapped open.  "The Book of Common Prayer!  Hilton Cubitt said that his husband was pacing the house, clutching his prayer book!"  
  
"Yes, good, but we don't know which of the figures stand for which number," John pointed out.  "It could take ages to go through all the combinations.  We need a starting place."  
  
Sherlock grabbed John by the arms, grinning at him and swinging him around in circles.  "Yes, we do!  And I believe I know just where to find one!"  He let go of John and strode towards the main doors.  "Come along, John!"

* * *

 

While the carriage drove to Riding Thorpe Manor, Sherlock scribbled a note on a page from his note-case which he sent into the house via a footman.  A short time later, Hilton Cubitt himself came down to the carriage, carrying a small book in his hand.  
  
"Lord Sherlock!  Lord Saughton!  You needn't have remained out here in the cold!" he remonstrated.  
  
"I thought it best to avoid disturbing your husband," Sherlock demurred.  "And there is every chance that your house is being watched."  
  
Mr. Cubitt's mouth tightened.  "If that scoundrel thinks he can harm my Ellis without retribution - !"  
  
"Patience, Mr. Cubitt!  I trust that all will be soon revealed," Sherlock replied. "Did you find what I asked you about?"  
  
Mr. Cubitt nodded and passed over the book.  "Ellis's own prayer book, and there is a note tucked into the pages, with a few numbers scribbled down, just as you said."  
  
"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, taking the book.  "I am close to a solution, and I'll warrant that a few hours will have the full story told."  
  
"I hope you are right, Mr. Holmes.  It's bad enough to feel that you are surrounded by an unseen foe with designs on you, but when you see your husband wearing away before your eyes....  Well, it's more than flesh and blood can endure."  
  
He stepped back from then and, as their carriage swept away, John looked back to see Hilton Cubitt watching after them with such a look of grim determination on his face that it caused shivers to run up John's spine.

* * *

 

  
When they arrived back at Saughton, Sherlock wasted no time in hurrying to his laboratory.  He tacked up the new note from Cubitt's office, then brought over a blackboard before opening the little prayer book and abstracting a scrap of paper marking the page.

"I thought as much!" Sherlock said, satisfaction in his voice.  "Ellis Cubitt undoubtedly learned this code at his father's knee but it has been several years since he used it; he would have made notes to jog his memory."  He handed the slip of paper and the book to John before turning back to his wall of clues.  
  
John looked down at the paper where the numbers "29" were written, then looked at the page they'd bookmarked.  " 'A Commination, or Denouncing of God's Anger and Judgements against Sinners'," he read aloud, wincing as he noted that several phrases such as "Cursed is he that taketh reward to slay the innocent" and "Cursed are the unmerciful" were heavily underscored.  "Ellis Cubitt seems to have some very strong feelings towards his persecutor."  
  
"Mmm," Sherlock said absently.   He went to the blackboard and began copying out the four lines of code, then drew lines under each figure and placed the numbers "2" and "9" under their corresponding figures.  "I believe that our stalker is someone known to the former Ellis Patrick, perhaps even a romantic interest, and the discovery of their evil deeds is what made Mr. Patrick flee from his home.  No doubt he thought that his former acquaintance would have trouble finding him, particularly once he left London."  
  
He stepped back from the wall where two figures in the first and second messages had been replace as well as one in the third.  "As you can see, the most common figures are the traditional stick man and the one with its left arm bent which we know is '2'.  Applying the standard rules of code, the traditional figure should represent '1', with all the other figures as variations of that figure."  He replaced two figures in the first line and one in the third line with '1'.  "This gives us nearly the entirety of the third message - sections 10 through 18 excluding 11 and 12, line 2."  
  
John looked through the contents of the Prayer book quickly, then stopped.  "The Collect - item 16 - line 2.  'I am the Lord thy God: Thou shalt have none other gods but me'."  He looked up at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "An Alpha, asserting his claim, which Ellis emphatically refuted."  He made a column in one corner of the blackboard with the numbers from 0 to 9, adding their dancing figure representation next to the ones he'd decoded.  "The message in Cubitt's office contains six short numerical references, therefore we can assume that it is part of the Calendar which is - "  
  
John scanned the contents page.  "Eight."  Sherlock place an "8" under that figure, and John read aloud, "Eight - Something - Nine - Two - Something - Nine."

Sherlock scowled.  "Too many variables."  He stared at the chart.  "If we assume that all the upside-down figures are the last three, as eight and nine are both upside down, then seven would be upside down without arms."  There were no figures with that configuration so he added it to the column instead.  "This leaves 0, 3, 4, and 5 to determine.  It is unlikely that 0 would be used in this code, and there are no right-side figures with arms, so we shall tentatively assign that to 0.  This leaves us with the figure with its arms akimbo and the figure with the left leg raised representing 3, 4 or 5."  
  
Turning to the first message, they quickly eliminated '13' and '14' as the sections referenced, thus setting the figure with the raised left leg as '5'.  Sherlock slotted in its reverse as '4', which left the arms akimbo figure as '3'.  That made the first scrawled messages '15.29.3.1' and John quickly located that passage.  
  
"  'Peter answered and said unto him, Behold, we have forsaken all, and followed thee; what shall we have therefore?'."  John looked at Sherlock.  "So our prankster is saying that they have left everything behind to follow Ellis Patrick?"  
  
Sherlock nodded. "And, more importantly, they are demanding a reward - that of Ellis himself."  
  
John's lips tightened.  "Ellis Patrick is not property, or a package to be collected upon arrival."  
  
Sherlock tilted his head and studied John curiously.  "Most Alphas would disagree with you, particularly as Ellis's current spouse is a Beta.  In fact, the Law might agree that this Alpha had a prior claim, particularly if Mr. Patrick Senior agreed to the match.  This would be that 'just cause' that clergymen ask for just before performing the marriage ceremony."  
  
"That doesn't make it right," John said stubbornly.  "Ellis Patrick chose Hilton Cubitt, and that choice should be the one that matters."  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before turning back to the wall.  "Now for the message in Hilton Cubitt's office.  If we have made the correct selections so far, this should be '8:5:9:2:3:9'."  
  
John quickly looked through the Calendar, counting the sections and readings, until he came to the right one.  He scanned it quickly and caught his breath.  "Sherlock, listen: 'The thief cometh not but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly'."  He looked up at the other man.  "I don't like the sound of this.  It sounds like a threat - or at least the first part.  Not sure about the part about having life more abundantly."  
  
"On the contrary, that part is quite clear.  Hilton and Ellis have been married for over a year and they have yet to conceive a child.  Many Alphas would consider that a waste of a fertile womb.  In fact, in earlier times, an Alpha could challenge another Alpha or Beta if their mate hadn't conceived a child after a year together."  His tone was dispassionate but there was an undertone of unease that made something inside John spring up in defence.  
  
"Barbarians," John said fiercely.  "No one should be valued solely for their ability to sire or bear children."  
  
"A bit of a radical ideology, John," Sherlock said with an obvious attempt at lightness.  "Next you will be advocating property rights for Omegas or even, God forbid!, the right for us to vote."    
  
He turned back to his notes, saying, "It is clear that a person of dubious repute and morals from the former Ellis Patrick's past has traced him to Scotland and that they believe they have a prior claim to Ellis's person.  They are attempting, first by entreaties and then threats, to persuade Ellis to come away with them.  It is equally clear that Ellis has  no intention of complying with these demands."  
  
"So what do we do now?"  
  
Sherlock consulted his pocket-watch.  "It is too late to pay a visit to Mr. Cubitt tonight and, as these drawings appear to have been made in the early morning hours, I believe we can wait until tomorrow morning to visit Riding Thorpe Manor and lay the facts before him.  In the meantime, I shall give Wiggins the evening off and instruct him to visit the pubs along the docks to see if we can find our prankster's berth."

* * *

 

 The following morning, a letter arrived from Mr. Hilton Cubitt as they were sitting down to breakfast.  Sherlock broke the seal and opened it, quickly scanning its contents.  
  
"Mr. Cubitt says that the night passed without incident, and his husband has recovered some of his usual spirits.  There was another drawing on the pedestal of the sundial but his husband made light of it.  In fact, Ellis is insisting that Hilton go into the office today as normal.  He has enclosed a copy of the newest writing; I shall go decipher it at once."

Picking up his tea cup, Sherlock disappeared down the hall with the letter.  John addressed the rest of his breakfast, only to have it disrupted a short time later as Sherlock burst back into the room.  "Make haste, John!  There is not a moment to lose!"  
  
Startled, John sprang up from the table, knocking over his chair.  "Why?  What has happened?"  
  
"A great tragedy is about to occur at Riding Thorpe Manor unless we are in time to prevent it.  Even so, we may be too late."  
  
He handed John the copy of the drawing to which he had added the translation.  On the back was written, in Sherlock's bold handwriting, "But ye shall die like men: and fall like one of the princes."

                        

 

Cursing under his breath, John chased after Sherlock and found him being helped into his greatcoat.  He took his own from the footman, shrugging into it as he led the way out the door.  "We'll need horses saddled - the carriage will be too slow, but on horseback we can cut along the hedgerows.  You can jump, can't you?"  
  
Sherlock nodded, and John hurried down the path towards the stables, shouting for their horses as he ran.  Before long, they were boosted into the saddles and John set off in the direction of Riding Thorpe Manor as fast as was safely possible.  It was an exhilarating ride, the air cold on his cheeks as the wind whipped through his hair with Sherlock riding beside him, and at any other time, he would have found it a joyous exercise.  But with two lives possibly in the balance, all John was aware of was the internal map in his head, the clock ticking with the beat of his heart, and the echo of hoof-beats behind him.  
  
They arrived at the house just in time to see two constables come running up and enter, and Sherlock groaned, "Too late.  We are too late."  
  
"We don't know that for certain," John said.   
  
He thrust his reins into the hands of a young lad standing on the pavement, not caring at the moment whether it was one of grooms, and rushed into the house with Sherlock on his heels.  A housemaid was sitting in a chair in the hall, her face in her apron, sobbing loudly, and Sherlock went up to her.  
  
"What has happened here?  Oh, do stop that howling and speak!"  
  
She took her face away from her apron long enough to say, "The master - he has murdered Mr. Ellis and then hisself!" before she disappeared into its folds again.  
  
"Impossible!" Sherlock said.  John ignored that, heading in the direction that the constables had taken, and found himself in the back parlour of the house.  Hilton Cubitt lay slumped on the floor over the body of a younger man, ignoring the constables who were trying to move him.  He was moaning, and John could see blood seeping from a graze along his temple.  
  
"Dead," Hilton was murmuring, over and over.  "He's dead.  What have I done?"  
  
"Come along, now, sir," one of the constables was exhorting, trying to move him.  "Not doing the missus any good like this."

"Let me have a look," John said to the constable.  "I'm a doctor."   The constable moved and John knelt beside Hilton Cubitt a moment before he uttered a final groan and went silent.

"Lord, he's stuck his spoon in the wall as well!" one of the constables exclaimed. 

John reached for Mr. Cubitt's wrist and found his pulse was steady.  A quick look at the man's injury answered two questions: it was not life-threatening and it was not self-inflicted.  "He's alive."

"Then he's for the gallows," the constable said grimly.

Sherlock had entered the room just as John made his announcement and he looked around, cataloguing everything in a glance.  "No, he's not.  He's injured and unconscious, but he is not a murderer."  He turned to the second constable and said, rather imperiously, "Fetch in the maid and anyone else who actually heard the gun-shot.  Oh, and some whiskey and clean cloths."  
  
"I beg your pardon, sir," the constable said, affronted, "but who're you to give orders here?"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied, "I work with the Thames River Police and and Bow Street Runners in London, and I am known to the Lord Advocate's Office.  And that man treating your victim is the Earl of Saughton, a cousin of some sort to the Solicitor General and half of the government, for a start."  
  
The constable swallowed and turned to the other.  "You heard what he said - whiskey!  And bring in the maid."  
  
John looked up from his patient.  "And have the footmen sent in, please.  I think Mr. Cubitt will recover better in his bed."

Sherlock turned away from the resultant bustle of activity.  He paced around the room, examining first the window and the sill around it, then the revolver lying on the floor next to the two victims, then the wall opposite the window.  He glanced over at their client, lying over the body of his husband, the wound along his temple bleeding sluggishly as John tended it, then looked around the room again.  He had just finished when a face popped in at the window, that of Wiggins.  
  
"Here you are, guv," Wiggins said cheerfully.  "Thought you might turn up about now."  
  
"Wiggins," Sherlock said, striding over to the window.  "You found our party, then?"  
  
"Yes, sir, right where you said.  Followed her here and back as well."  
  
"Excellent!"  Sherlock pulled out a note and handed it to Wiggins.  "Give this to her."  
  
"Her?" John asked, looking up from where he was carefully cleaning the wound with a cloth dipped in whiskey.  "The stalker is a woman?"  
  
"Most definitely," Sherlock said, turning back to John.  "What happened to Mr. Cubitt?"  
  
"It's a bullet crease - painful but not serious, and not self-inflicted."  The footmen entered and John instructed them on the careful lifting of their master, telling them that he would be up shortly and that the valet was to take caution in putting his master to bed.  He then turned to the household staff hovering in the doorway and asked the housekeeper for bandages and medicinal spirits to be sent up to Mr. Cubitt's room as well.

"He didn't shoot hisself then?" the constable asked.  "Were it the other one then?  Shot at Mr. Cubitt and then killed hisself?"

"Unlikely," Sherlock said.  "You would do well to send for your superior, as I expect to turn over to you the instigator of this tragic event." 

"Right then, sir."

The constable left the room on this mission and John turned his attention to the body lying on the floor of the room.  He couldn't see any sign of injury, no trace of blood, and a suspicion occurred to him.   He knelt beside the young man and uncovered his hand, feeling for a pulse.  It was there, strong and sure.

"Ellis Cubitt isn't dead," he told Sherlock.  "Help me move him onto his back, slowly."  

Sherlock did so and John could see that there was no sign of blood on the front of the body, although there was a clear singe mark and bullet hole in the upper left side of his coat.  Carefully, aware that there might be other injuries, he peeled back the coat, removing the thick wallet in his breast pocket and handing it to Sherlock before he carefully opened the linen shirt to bare the skin.  There was an ugly bruise, one that was purple and swelling, and tenderness underneath that hinted at a bruised rib, but miraculously no other sign of damage. 

The injury must have been painful for, under John's careful probing, Ellis stirred for the first time, moaning as he came back to consciousness.

"Saints preserve us!" the maid shrieked, tossing her apron up to cover her face.  "The dead are coming back to life!"

"The young man is injured but not dead," John said shortly, glaring at the woman who had gone into hysterics, and at the pale-faced constable beside her.  "Please remove her at once!  This noise is not helpful for my patient."

Sherlock gestured for the constable to take the woman out and grabbed the decanter of whiskey from the side table, pouring out a glass.  The young man had blinked open his eyes and stared around him, his face unnaturally pale.  He opened his mouth to speak but a weak groan came out instead.

"Easy now, Mr. Cubitt," John said soothingly as he righted the young man's coat and slid an arm under him to help him sit up. "Take a few minutes to catch your breath.  You are quite safe now."  Sherlock handed him a glass of whiskey and he held it to the young man's lips.  "Take a few sips of this.  It will help."

Ellis sipped from the glass and a bit of colour returned to his face.  "What - what happened?"

"That is what we hope to find out from you," Sherlock said, squatting down to look Ellis in the face instead of towering above him.  John gave him a quick side glance of disapproval and Sherlock amended, "After you've had time to recover."

Ellis took another sip, then suddenly his eyes widened, filled with tears.  "Hilton!" 

He tried to rise but John held onto him, refusing to let him move.  "Your husband is upstairs, resting in his bed."

Ellis fixed his eyes on John, and cautious hope began to replace the fearful grief there.  "Alive?  He is alive?"

"Very much so.   He has sustained a very minor injury from which he will recover, as will you."  Ellis took a deep, shaky breath, then groaned in pain.  "Let's get you up and into a chair, shall we?" John said.  "You'll feel more the thing." 

With Sherlock's assistance, Ellis was soon settled in a chair with a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand.  He took a sip and then looked between John and Sherlock.  "I do beg your pardon, gentlemen," he spoke, his voice soft and pleasant, but with the peculiar accent of those from the Americas.  Several of the wives of soldiers formerly stationed in the Colonies had borne such accents.  "I am grateful for your assistance but - who are you, precisely?  You are not with the Law?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied briskly.  "My husband, Dr. John Watson - also known as Lord Saughton.  We were asked to look into the problem of vandalism to your husband's office."

Ellis drew in a sharp breath.  "Sherlock Holmes!  I have heard..."  He closed his eyes and swallowed.  "How much do you know?"

"Nearly all.  What I don't know will be shortly remedied, once the constables return.  And Captain Abigail Slaney."

Ellis eyes shot open and once again he tried to stand.  "No!  Oh God, no!  Don't let her come here!"

Sherlock stopped him from rising and said, in a tone that was redolent with sincerity.  "Mr. Cubitt, you may place your trust in me.  I will not allow Abbie Slaney to trouble you any further.  You have my word."

"And my protection," John assured him.  "Should you or your husband require it."

Ellis looked between them for a moment, tears welling in his eyes.  "Thank you, but the Law might have a different opinion, if it comes down to that.  You do not know the full story."

"Near enough," Sherlock said, taking a seat across from Ellis.  "There are one or two points that require a little clarification.  First, what was the nature of Slaney's criminal activity in Canada?"

"Slavery," Ellis said shortly.  "Abbie is captain of her own merchant ship, and she trades in slaves.  She obtains them from Africa, and from the native tribes in the north, and conveys them to the markets for sale.  Omegas. Female Betas.  Children.  Families and villages plundered, souls subjected to the cruellest treatment, all for base money."  His voice shook with emotion as he spoke.

Sherlock nodded.  "I thought as much.  And your father?"

"Turned a blind eye to the cargo Abbie brought through the port."  Bitterly, he added, "Abbie was the child of his closest friend, and his god-daughter.  She was the Alpha child he always wanted, not a weak Omega like me."

" _Was_ there a marriage contract?"

Ellis shook his head.  "Father pressed me but I refused.  They hoped to wear me down,  but then Father died.  Abbie was away to the West Indies so I seized the opportunity and convinced my aunt to leave Halifax.  She had kept house for us since my mother died, but she was home-sick for London so it was very easy to persuade her.  I had thought to live a quiet life there, but then I met Hilton."  A smile touched his lips then, a soft and gentle look came into his eyes.  "He was so unlike anyone I had ever met, so kind and thoughtful, so true in valuing my opinions.  I couldn't help falling in love with him."

"When you saw the dancing men, why didn't you tell your husband the full story?"

Ellis's face shadowed.  "He would have insisted on involving the Law."

"And you didn't think that the Courts would support your side?" John asked.  "There was no prior contract and your marriage was legally performed."

"Abbie is an Alpha," Ellis said bitterly.  "She would claim that there was a contract, or forge one in order to force me.  Who would believe the word of an Omega against an Alpha?"

"I would," John said sincerely.

Ellis's smile twisted.  "Your words do you credit, my lord, but you have no idea what you are talking about.  You have not had to live with the reality of having everything about your life decided, controlled, by others.  When I cannot even appear in court to testify on my own behalf, how can I trust Alphas and Betas to determine my fate?  Ask your husband if he is so certain that the Court will side with me." 

John dropped his eyes, chastened by the Omega's words, and at that point, the constables returned.

A distinguished looking older man marched in, trailing the two constables, and looked around.  "What's all this, then?" he asked.  "I was told there was a murder and suicide, only where's the bodies?"

"I am afraid that such reports were exaggerated," Sherlock said smoothly, stepping forward. 

The chief constable eyed him shrewdly.  "You'll be this Sherlock Holmes that I've heard about?"

"I am flattered that my name has come to your attention."

The chief constable let out a bark or laughter.  "Aye, it was Robert Waithman, Sheriff of the City of London, who warned me about you.  He also told me I'd do well to listen to you."  He held out his hand for Sherlock to shake.  "Chief Constable Thomas Martin."   He turned toward John and nodded his head.  "Lord Saughton.  Not raising the dead now, are you?"

John grinned.  He remembered Martin from his youth, having fallen foul of the Watch on a few occasions.  "Not that I'm aware of."  He gestured toward his patient and added, "Mr. Ellis Cubitt. His husband, Hilton Cubitt, is upstairs recovering and, I believe, still unconscious."

Ellis drew in a deep breath at that, then winced as it made his bruised ribs ache.  Martin's sharp eyes caught this and he turned to Sherlock.

"My lad here says that one of the gentlemen shot the other and then tried to put a period to his life.  Which is the victim, and which the attempted murderer?"

"Neither," Sherlock said.  "If you will examine this gun, the only one present, you will see that it has been fired just once.  I believe you will find that this bullet is lodged in the window sill.   Moreover, the calibre of the bullet that struck Mr. Ellis is different. "

Chief Constable Martin looked over Ellis where he sat.  "Doesn't look like he's been shot."

"If you'll permit, Mr. Ellis?" John said and, at a nod from the young man, he held open the coat so that Martin could see the bullet hole and the bruising.

"Good Lord!  How - "  Sherlock handed him Ellis's wallet, thick with banknotes, with a spent bullet lodged inside.  Martin examined it and then looked at the young man shrewdly.  "Lucky that the young man had this in his pocket, I'd say.  Who shot him, then?"

"I believe that the answer to that question is now to be revealed."  Sherlock turned to the housekeeper and said, "Please escort the visitor directly to this room and on no account tell her what has transpired."  She nodded and left the room.  Sherlock turned to the rest of the assembled group.  "Gentlemen, if you would take your places behind the door and don't move until our prey has sprung the trap.  John, if you will remain by Mr. Ellis's side and stop our visitor if she attempts to flee by the window?"

There was a confident step in the hallway and then a tall, well-built woman dressed in a light grey coat and dark trousers strode into the room.  Her hair was cut short and her face showed the effects of sea-water and sun, and there was something about the hard set of her mouth and the avaricious glint in her eyes that made John step closer to Ellis.  But the Alpha didn't notice; her eyes fixed on Ellis where he sat on the sofa, silent and pale, and she strode forward.

"Well, now, Ellie.  Come to your senses, have you?"

Once she was clear of the door, Sherlock sprang forward, slamming the door and putting his back against it.  The woman swung around, swearing as she saw the constables standing between her and escape, and she bolted for the window.  John was there, though, before she could dive out, and then the constables had grabbed her by the arms and slapped the darbies around her wrists, then pulled out a revolver from the wide pocket of her coat.  She glared at everyone around her.

"Well, gentlemen, you have the advantage of me, but I came here at the invitation of Mr. Ellis Cubitt, sitting there.  Tell them, Ellie."

Ellis pressed his lips together and shook his head, and Sherlock said, "I was the one who sent the note to you, Captain Slaney."

"Impossible," Captain Slaney barked out.  "There is no one alive but Ellie who knows that code."

"  'Whither thou goest, I will go' ?" Sherlock quoted out loud, watching as Slaney's face darkened.  "What one man can invent another can discover.  Everything is known; your best hope is to make a clean breast."

Captain Slaney scowled but, after a baleful look at Ellis, turned back to Sherlock and the Chief Constable.  "I'll tell you, and then you gentlemen can tell me whether or not I had a right to do what I did."

"A right - " Ellis burst out, but then bit his lip as Sherlock looked his way and shook his head slightly.

The constables allowed Slaney to sit down in a straight-backed chair, taking a position to either side of her.  She drew her manacled hands across her brow, wiping away her perspiration.

"First of all, I want you gentlemen to understand that I have known Ellie since he was a child.  His father and mine were close as brothers, and it was their wish that we be married, once Ellie presented as Omega.  I have loved him as I have loved no other, and he was promised to me by his father.  I have a right to him!  Who was this Scotsman to come between us?  I tell you that I had the first right to him, and that I was only claiming my own."

"He broke away from you and your influence when he found out the sort of woman you are," Sherlock said sternly.  "He fled from Halifax to escape you, and married an honourable gentleman in England.  You pursued him here, tormented him and made his life a misery, and when he repulsed you utterly, you tried to kill him."

"I would never harm a hair on his head!" Slaney exclaimed, trying to rise.  One of the constables pressed her back into her chair by her should and she subsided, then turned to face the Chief Constable, an engaging smile on her lips as she said, "Are you going to listen to this fantasy from this deluded Omega?  Don't know where he gets those ideas - must be his time, eh?"

She winked at the Chief Constable, so clearly conveying that as Alphas they should stick together.  John had never wanted to punch anyone in the nose as much as he did at that moment.

Without a flicker of emotion on his face, Martin said, "There are some very serious charges against you, Captain Slaney.  I suggest that you take them to heart."  He turned to Sherlock.  "Lord Sherlock, if you will continue?"

A triumphant smirk lifted the corner of Sherlock's mouth.  "I believe that this part of the story is Mr. Ellis Cubitt's to tell."

Ellis straightened up, wincing slightly, and for the first time, John saw a spark of hope in his face.  "Lord Sherlock is correct.  I learned that Abbie and my father were involved in the slave trade, and I turned my back on both of them."

Chief Constable Martin raised an eyebrow.  Although it was not yet illegal to own slaves throughout Britain and its colonies, the trade of them had been outlawed for a decade.  "Was there a contract between you and Captain Slaney, Mr. Cubitt?"

"No, there was not," Ellis said firmly.  "My father pressed me to take Abbie but I could not.  I came to England when my father died and I met and married Hilton."  His eyes filled with tears.  "We have been very happy for a year, until Abbie found me and started tormenting me."

"I never did!" Slaney protested to the Chief Constable.  "I left messages, in the code that we both knew, coaxing him to run away with me.  He ignored my messages.  So yes, I may have threatened him a little, but I didn't mean any harm.  Then, after I left a message this morning, he sent a message to my ship and said that if I came to the window after his husband left for work, he would speak with me in person.  So I did, and begged him to come with me, but he just offered me money to go away and leave him alone.  That made me mad and I caught his arm and tried to pull him through the window.  At that moment, his husband rushed into the room - he must have sensed something was wrong and come back early.  He had a revolver in his hand, and I pushed Ellie away and pulled out my own.  Cubitt shot at me but missed, and I shot back, twice, and then ran, not looking to see what I struck.  When I got Ellie's letter," he glared at Sherlock at this, "I thought Cubitt dead and that Ellie had decided to come with me in the end."

"I would never go with you," Ellis said, his voice low and dark with anger and pain.  "If my Hilton died, I'd kill myself instead of turning to you."

Slaney paled.  "Ellie - "

"Don't call me that," Ellis said fiercely.  "You have no right to call me that."  He turned to the Chief Constable.  "When she fired, I stepped between him and Hilton and felt the bullet strike me here."  He placed his hand over his left breast.  "It knocked me down and I recall nothing else until these gentlemen roused me."

"As I have already said," Sherlock spoke up.  "Mr. Hilton Cubitt's bullet struck the window sill.  Captain Slaney's first bullet lodged in the wallet that I gave you, while the second grazed Hilton's temple and lodged in that wall."  He pointed towards the wall across from the window.  One of the constables strode over to the wall and studied it, then let out an exclamation and pulled out a pocket-knife.  He dug the bullet out of the wall and brought it over to the Chief Constable.

"Compare it to the one that struck Mr. Ellis and you will have proof that Captain Slaney is the one who injured both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his husband, Ellis.  That she didn't kill either of them must be put down to Providence."

"I was reclaiming my Omega!" Abigail Slaney protested angrily.  "That Beta Bastard has no right to him!  He's mine!"

"According to the Law of Church and State," Chief Constable Martin said, "Ellis Cubitt is legally married to Hilton Cubitt, and you have no right to interfere with that marriage and bond."  He pulled Slaney to her feet.  "Captain Abigail Slaney, I charge you with interfering with a pair-bond, and two counts of assault with intent to commit murder.  I advise you that anything you say may be taken down and used against you."

Defeated, Slaney slumped between the constables as she was led from the room.  Martin turned to Sherlock.  "Lord Sherlock, we will need your statement for the court case and, with your Alpha's permission, I would like to request that you appear in Court to testify."

Sherlock swelled visibly at this, and John was reminded of one of the reasons why his husband had agreed to marry him.  He readily gave his permission and, as Sherlock followed the Chief Constable out of the room, John was suddenly aware that Ellis was trembling.

"Mr. Ellis, you're not well - " he began, but stopped when Ellis began laughing, shaky though it was.

"It's over," he said, tears streaming down his cheeks.  "I've been afraid for so long...and now it's over."  He looked up at John.  "May I go see Hilton?  I need to tell him _everything_."

John stood and offered his hand to help Ellis up, worried about pressure on those bruised ribs.  "I will accompany you.  I need to see if he has regained consciousness and check his injury."

Hilton Cubitt was awake, lying on his bed with tears running down his cheeks in his grief when they entered the room.  At the sight of Ellis, alive and well, his breath caught in his chest and he let out a strangled cry of joy mixed with pain.  Ellis flew to his arms, covering his face with kisses, as they clung and wept and laughed.  John decided that neither required his attention at that moment and that both of his patients were in good hands now, and he withdrew from the house.

He collected his horse from the lad outside and slowly made his way home, deep in thought as he rode.  And if those thoughts were a jumble of Omega rights, Alpha privilege, fairness, and Sherlock, then there were probably few who would not understand why.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am indebted to [Ariane Devere's transcripts. ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/45111.html) Some of the dialogue also comes from the ACD story itself.


	24. Part II: Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves a few final mysteries in Edinburgh, including one that features a client from John's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty Winter appears in [Chapter Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2330933/chapters/5195570) of "Three Continents Watson". It isn't necessary to read that chapter, but you will be missing the porn if you don't. She also appears in "The Illustrious Client", which makes up part of this story. [I always thought that Sherlock's plan about the china was a stupid one - I blame the head injury for his lack of proper planning.]

Following the case that John privately called "The Dancing Men", Sherlock's expertise began to be called upon by both the local constabulary and those who heard about him through the gossip mill.  John was delighted to watch as Sherlock applied his deductive talents to the cases brought before him, and on two occasions he was able to refer cases to Sherlock himself.

The first of these was a delicate matter that had caused Dr. Stewart to appeal to John for assistance.  There was a possibility that cheating had been involved in the examination for a highly coveted scholarship with three suspected students.  Sherlock speedily resolved the matter by examining Dr. Stewart's office and the peculiar behaviour of his scout, then pinpointed the culprit without plunging the college into scandal.  Dr. Stewart's gratitude was fervent and led to the second case, a personal matter involving his god-daughter.

Miss Mary Sutherland was a young Beta with a small fortune who had become engaged to a Beta gentleman, only to have him disappear into thin air on the morning they were to be married.  She feared that her step-father had learned of their plans and killed the young man, but Sherlock was able to determine that her fiancé was really her step-father in disguise.  He had courted her in disguise and then disappeared so as to prevent her from ever marrying - and taking her fortune with her upon marriage.  Sherlock wasn't able to restore Miss Sutherland's lost fiancé, but he and John confronted her step-father to prevent a repeat of his reprehensible actions.  John also had a private word with the Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy and saw by the match-making light in her eyes that Miss Sutherland wouldn't pine for her lost fiancé for long.  
  
After this, Sherlock was flooded with requests for assistance, in general from private clients like Miss Sutherland.  Most of them were trivial - misplaced jewellery and inquiries about the odd behaviour of a spouse - and most of these cases Sherlock turned down.  There were a few that he took, and it was clear to John that it didn't matter if the client was wealthy or poor, only that there was some unusual aspect to the case, some mystery that would challenge his intellect.  
  
On a few occasions, Sherlock was asked by the local constabulary to cast his eye over evidence, either to untangle clues or shed new light.  Constable Stanley Hopkins from the Falkirk district outside Glasgow was one of his most ardent admirers among the constabulary, and he turned up on three separate occasions to seek help.  If John had been inclined to jealousy, he would have come to dislike Constable Hopkins, but the young Beta was clearly innocent in his hero-worship of Sherlock.  And John did enjoy seeing someone else admire Sherlock for his brilliance instead of regarding him with contempt or suspicion.    
  
The first case presented by Constable Hopkins had come a few days after the "Dancing Men" incident, a simple matter involving a break-in at the Amateur Mendicant Society offices in Glasgow.  His second case was more complicated, and had occurred a week later.   John sat down to a late breakfast accompanied by the day's mail instead of his spouse who appeared to have left the house early.  Since he'd received a note from Constable Hopkins the previous evening, John was not surprised.  He sorted through the mail, setting aside a few for Sherlock, and then began perusing his own mail.  A few minutes later, he heard a scream from one of the maids followed by a thump, and then Sherlock strode into the room.  
  
"What was that?" John asked, not looking up as he broke the seal on a missive penned in an unfamiliar hand.  
  
"One of the maids fainted."  
  
"Why - " John now looked up and took in the sight of Sherlock, in his shirt-sleeves with his arms, chest, and face splattered with blood.  In his hand was a long spear, likewise covered with blood.  "Good Lord!" he said, jumping up from his chair.  "What happened?  Where are you hurt?"  
  
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.  "It's not my blood."  
  
John blinked.  "Then whose blood is it?"  
  
"A pig's."  Sherlock surveyed the spread on the table and his face lit up.  "I see that Cook has made her apple fritters.  Excellent!"  He leaned the spear against the wall and approached the table, pouring out a cup of coffee.  "If you had been at the Home farm an hour ago, you would have seen a dead pig swinging from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in his shirt-sleeves furiously stabbing at it with that weapon."  
  
"An hour ago?"  
  
"Yes.  I had to walk back.  My horse bolted for some reason and none of the local farmers would take me up."  
  
"Can't imagine why," John murmured.  He retook his seat, picking up the discarded letter.  "Might I inquire why?"  
  
"I was trying to satisfy myself that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”  
  
"Not for the world, but to what purpose?"  
  
"It has a bearing upon the mystery at Bo'ness."  
  
"Really?" John stared down at the missive he'd unfolded and frowned.  It was unsigned and he didn't recognize the hand-writing, but the wording was clear enough.  _You would do well to control the Omega you have wed and give him other tasks to occupy his energy,_ it read.   He frowned.  
  
"Think nothing of that puerile scribble," Sherlock said, and John looked up to find his husband's keen eyes on him.  "Mycroft gets a dozen such each year."  There was a look in his eyes, though, that told John that he was not as nonchalant about John's reaction as he seemed.  
  
John smiled.  "Good advice."  He balled up the missive and tossed it into the fireplace where it burst into flame.  "And if I might suggest a wash before you eat - or cause any more of the servants to faint?  Lord knows we had a time hiring on the new staff; we don't want to scare them off already."  
  
Turner entered at that moment, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Sherlock but merely saying, in that bland tone that all butlers somehow managed, "Constable Hopkins, my lord."  
  
"Thank you, Turner; show him in.  And if you would have the footmen bring the tub and hot water up to Lord Sherlock's room?"  
  
Turner bowed slightly in response.  "Very good, my lord."    
  
He stepped back from the doorway and the familiar figure of Stanley Hopkins entered.  There was a troubled look on his usually cheerful face, and his eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock although, to his credit, he said nothing.  
  
John gestured towards an empty chair at the table.   "Constable, will you join us?"  
  
"No, thank you, my lord," Hopkins replied, although his eyes lingered on the coffee urn.  "I breakfasted before I came 'round."  
  
"And what have you to report about the case, Constable?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Failure, Lord Sherlock.   None of my inquiries have garnered aught."  
  
Sherlock nodded his head, as if he had expected such a response.  "Then I will have to look into the matter personally."  
  
Hopkins sighed.  "I wish you would, my lord.  It's  my first murder and I am at my wit's end."  
  
Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully, the way he did when a particularly challenging case fell into his hands.  "Then we will visit Bo'ness immediately.  John,if you can spare the time, I would be glad of your assistance."  
  
"Certainly."    
  
"Give me a few minutes to wash and change, then we will go.  In the meantime, if you will impart the details of the case to Lord Saughton, Hopkins?"  Sherlock disappeared from the room.  
  
John poured out a cup of coffee and pushed it in Hopkins' direction.  "You had best sit down and eat, Constable.  Once Lord Sherlock gets his teeth into a case, he doesn't stop for food or rest, nor acknowledge that the rest of us mere mortals need either."  
  
Hopkins gratefully accepted the coffee and, after a moment of hesitation, helped himself to one of the baked delicacies set out on the table.  "Thank you, my lord."  He bit into a fritter and made an involuntary noise of appreciation.  
  
"Amazing, aren't they?  We love Cook's baking day."  John helped himself to one.  "What can you tell  me about this case, Constable?"  
  
Hopkins produced his notebook, reading out the facts of the case, which were not pretty.  An old Beta sea captain, called Black Peter Carey by those who knew him, had retired from the sea and settled in the small village of Bo'ness with his wife and daughter.  He had been a violent, unpleasant man, inclined toward violence when drunk - which was nearly every night - and a tyrant to his household.  It was little surprise that he had met an unpleasant end, pinned to the wall of his study by a harpoon sometime early the previous day.  However, no one had visited him during the night hours when the murder had taken place and no reason for the crime, other than his unpleasant nature, could be found.  
  
Sherlock returned in short order, once more neat as a pin and fashionably clad.  On the carriage ride over, Hopkins answered Sherlock's questions about his investigation so far, then he'd stood back and watched with admiration as Sherlock swept into the house and began examining the murder scene.  He then turned to questioning the household, all of whom agreed that Carey had no visitors that they knew about, but they were clearly cowed by their late master.  His wife and daughter were tight-lipped but there was an air of relief about them, readily explained by their visible bruises.  John began to wonder if some good Samaritan had rid the world of an evil man, and if it would be better to leave the matter unsettled.

However, the discovery of a small notebook near the victim's body turned the matter in another direction once it was found that it contained details of illegal dealings, including theft and murder.  From the information he gleaned, Sherlock was able to put his finger on a compatriot in Black Peter's former crimes, a harpooner from his old ship who'd murdered Carey for the money.  This man was summarily arrested before he could cause further harm to the household, and Constable Hopkins expressed his thanks effusively, as well as his regret that Sherlock would be shortly returning to London.    
  
Meanwhile, John watched as Sherlock investigated and deduced, his brilliance sparkling like the finest diamonds.  He thought about the note that he'd received, about the ones that Mycroft had received over the years, and wondered how anyone could want to deny Sherlock the use of his mental gifts.  And a chill of foreboding ran up his spine as he thought that there might be some, like Jefferson Hope, who would express their disapproval in more violent fashion.

* * *

 

Shortly after this, John started to record his adventures with Sherlock in a journal, as he had noted his years as an Army surgeon.

He started first with a list of the areas encompassing Sherlock's knowledge - or lack thereof.  When he finished, he had to smile at the list, for Sherlock had little knowledge of literature (unless it was about historical crimes), or politics, or philosophy.  When John had realized that Sherlock had no concept of the movement of the planets, not even that the solar system was heliocentric, he had laughed for so long that Sherlock had flounced off in a huff.  On the other hand, his knowledge of chemistry, anatomy, law, and crime was extensive.  And he knew the details about every important crime over the past hundred years. 

He could also play the violin, although in this area he was eccentric as well.   He could play difficult pieces with a skill that John recognized as professionally trained, but he could also make such a dismal noise by scraping his bow across the strings that it would drive John from the room.  And John found it difficult to predict which version of Sherlock would turn up when he picked up the violin.  Sherlock refused to play before company, though, so John felt grateful that he alone was accorded those moments when Sherlock lost himself in playing beautiful music.  Gradually he came to realize that these private concerts nearly always followed some display of boorishness towards John, as if a sort of apology that would never be put in words.

With the first of March came the start of the small Season in Edinburgh, preparation for those young ladies who would be presented in London following Easter.  Although Sherlock was not "coming out", he and John were bullied by the Dowager Countess Dalrymple to attend the most important of the parties and mix among the upper society of Edinburgh.  It was at one such party that John first heard the gossip about the impending marriage between Lady Violet de Merville and Baron Gruner.  It wasn't merely that she was one of the most beautiful Omegas in Edinburgh, or the wealthiest, and that she was marrying a foreign nobleman - marriages with nobility from the Continent had been common among the Scottish nobility before the recent upheaval with Napoleon.  What caused most of the tongues to wag was the fact that the Baron had already buried a wife and, many said, had been the one to put her in her grave.  In addition, he was known to have had many lovers - Betas and Omegas of both sexes - all over Europe, although few were ever seen again after he'd tired of them.  Factor in the rumour that he had his finger in many a political intrigue and it added up to a dangerous man to consider as husband.  Lady Violet wouldn't hear a word against him, however, and as she was old enough to marry and her father too ill after many years campaigning in South Africa to oppose her, it appeared that her fate would soon be sealed. 

Even Sherlock, when appealed to by several of the lady's friends, could see no alternative.  That the Baron was a monster there was little doubt, but he was also careful.  There were no records, no witnesses, and he was always in company elsewhere when an accident befell one of his accusers - or his first wife.  So John was not expecting that he, or Sherlock, would come to be directly involved in the severing of this engagement, or the destruction of Baron Gruner.

John was working in his study one afternoon, writing up his notes about what he had called _The Adventure of Black Peter_ when Turner announced that there was a Female to see him.  From the tone of Turner's voice, it was clear that she wasn't the sort of woman that the butler thought should be conversing with his Lordship.  However, since Sherlock had been receiving clients from all walks of life, Turner had become accustomed to admitting any number of Persons to the house.

"Show her in, Turner," John said, placing his pen in the stand and closing the journal.  Turner bowed and stepped out, returning with with a veiled woman.  John stood and gestured towards a chair.  "Please, won't you have a seat, Miss - "

"Winter.  Kitty Winter."  She sat down and put back her veil, then gave him a sad smile.  "Hello, John."

John stared, open-mouthed, at the woman sitting across from him.  "Kitty?"  Gone was the beautiful, vibrant, laughing young woman he had met when he was an awkward young University student.  She and her partner, Kyle, had been artists' models and had initiated John in the intimate pleasures before leaving Edinburgh for Italy, and he had never seen them again.  Now she sat across from him looking pale and thin, her face worn by pain and misery, and he scarcely would have known her.

He came around the side of his desk and took her hands in his.  "My dear Kitty, what has happened to you?  Where is Kyle?"

"Dead."  Tears welled in her eyes but she shook her head, dashing them away.  "You were always good to us, but I have not come to you for assistance, Lord Saughton.  I have come to ask you to speak with your husband, to gain his help in preventing another tragedy and, if possible, to obtain justice for Kyle."

"Justice?  Against whom?"

"Baron Gruner."  Kitty's voice was a snarl as she spoke the name.  "The most evil man this side of Hell."

John's eyes widened.  "One moment, Kitty - I will fetch Sherlock.  He will want to hear this from you."

She clutched his hands, keeping him from leaving, and shook her head.  "I am not the kind of person you want to introduce to your Omega."

John grinned at that.  "Believe me, my husband has associated with people from all levels of society - his valet was a street urchin when they met.  I do not govern nor dictate the company he keeps."

"Which is why John Watson is a prize among husbands," said a voice from the doorway. 

John released Kitty's hands and turned toward the doorway, smiling at the sight of Sherlock leaning against the frame.   "Hello, Sherlock.  Miss Winter has come to you for assistance and she apparently has information regarding Baron Gruner."

"Indeed."  Sherlock slowly crossed the room, his eyes intent on Kitty.  "You are - or were - a model until you fell into Baron Gruner's grasp.  You have suffered a great deal and have lost someone very dear to you."  His eyes dropped to her hands.  "You were also an intimate companion of my husband's when he was a young man, possibly his first lover."

John's face flushed at that.  "Sherlock - "

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.  "Not important.  What matters is that Miss Winter has vital information for us."   He tilted his head, studying Kitty again.  "Perhaps tea would be of benefit."

"And so I thought," Mrs. Turner said, entering the room carrying a tea tray.  She set it on the desk and then cast a quick look over Kitty.  "And perhaps a bit of a wash and a kip in a proper bed once the gentlemen have finished their questions?  Just ring for Alice when you're ready, my lord."

As she left, John began pouring the tea.  "You were telling us about Baron Gruner?" he said, handing her a cup.

Kitty nodded, lifting her teacup in shaky hands to take a sip before setting it down and folding her hands in her lap.  "You will remember that Kyle and I were going to Italy?"  she asked John, then turned to Sherlock.  "Kyle was my lover, my partner, my - everything.  We didn't marry - don't believe in it, you see?  We spent many years in Italy, modelling and sharing our bed with likely young lads, mostly artists and poets.  When the war ended, we travelled through Austria and then to Paris, and that's where we met the Baron three years ago."

"What happened?" John asked gently, seeing that the tears were filling her eyes again.

"We were no longer in demand as models but had no lack of attention in more intimate dealings, and so we caught Baron Gruner's attention, curse the day.   We'd never allowed a gentleman to keep us before, liked the freedom to come and go as we please, and we had enough money from our modelling.  Adelbert was so persuasive, though and so handsome, that we finally said yes.  He set us up in a nice little house, with servants and a fine carriage, and clothing and jewels.  He was charming and so generous, and fools that we were, we fell in love with him.  That was where our fall began. 

"Once the Baron had us in his power, he tightened his grasp and made it impossible for us to leave.  How he used us..."  She broke off, her voice choked, and it was several moments before she could speak again.  "And not just us.  He would speak in his velvet way of someone who had crossed him and then look at me with a steady eye and tell me how they'd died within a month."

She picked up her teacup and took another sip, then set it down.  "Kyle wanted to leave right off, to take what we could carry and slip out while the Baron was away, but I was in love with him, and he could explain it all away with his poisonous, lying tongue.  And then Kyle found this book, hidden in the desk drawer, and we knew we had to leave.  Only the Baron was suspicious, and no doubt ready for someone new, and he laid a trap for us.  We decided to leave with nothing other than the clothing on our backs so that he couldn't set the law after us, but it was no good.  He  was waiting outside the house when we slipped out the back door, and his men grabbed us.  They beat us with their fists and boots, then flung us down on the alley and the Baron tossed vitriol on us.  Kyle managed to shield me, except my arm, and I remember how it burned before I fainted.  Kyle - " Her voice broke off and she struggled to regain her composure.  "It caught him across the face."

"Dear Lord!" John exclaimed, horrified.

She drew in a deep breath.  "He never recovered consciousness from the blows to his head and the burns to his face, which was a blessing I suppose.  I was in hospital for near a month and the scarring..."  She touched her left arm, hidden under the sleeve of her dress.  "it's not pretty."

"Why tell us this, Miss Winter?" Sherlock asked.  "What is it that you think we can do?"

"Tell this girl he's to marry," Kitty said urgently.  "The Baron is not one to cross, and he never lets go of you once he has you.  And there's more."  She licked her lips.  "He collects people, as some men collect butterflies, and he puts it all in that book - what they like, what he's done with them, and to them, everything.  I've no objection to a racy tale, and there's not much I haven't done in the bedroom, but this is evil, Lord Sherlock.  It's a beastly book - 'Souls I have ruined', he calls it.  Innocents he has dragged into Hell with him, and what happened when he tired of them."

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.  "Evidence," he said, sounding as if he'd been given a great prize.  "You are certain of this?" 

She nodded.  "I have looked into it, once, and I wish I hadn't.  That's why we left - or tried to leave."

"Where does he keep it?"

"With him, always, locked in a drawer in his desk.  It has a brown leather cover with his family arms stamped in gold on it."

"Isn't he afraid of burglars?"

"He's not a coward - even his worst enemy won't say that about him.  Besides, no one knows he has it."

Sherlock sat down in the other chair, steepling his fingers together under his chin, and frowned in thought.  John refilled Kitty's tea cup as he studied his husband. 

"You are thinking about how to get your hands on it, aren't you?" he asked.

"The issue is gaining admittance to the house," Sherlock said absently.  "Once we are inside, a small distraction to draw his attention away from his study and Wiggins will have the drawer open in a trice."

"And you and Wiggins will both go to prison for burglary," John pointed out.

"Baron Gruner is hardly likely to report the theft.  He wouldn't want anyone else to look at it, if the contents are what Miss Winter describes."

"To what purpose, though?  You can't show the book to Lady Violet, not something like that.  I suppose we  could talk to her, explain what we know?"

"Perhaps, but by all reports she is made of ice and will take no one's advice."  Sherlock dropped his hands and turned his head sharply to look at Kitty.  "Does the Baron have any particular hobbies or obsessions - other than the one you mentioned?"

Kitty looked doubtful.  "He collects fancy china."

"Just the thing!" John said brightly.  "Cousin Margaret collects china as well.  Perhaps she could lend us a piece and I could consult the Baron about its value, or offer to sell it to him."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "John, you surprise me!  I had no idea that you were familiar with fine china."

"Of course I'm not!"

"A fact that the Baron will determine within a few minutes, even if you were to study for weeks, and we have no time.  We leave for London in eight days."   He rose from his chair.  "Miss Winter, I will consider your suggestion to speak with this young lady personally, as I have been approached by several prominent individuals on this matter.  I dare say they will be willing to reward you handsomely for your assistance - "

"None of that," Kitty said sharply, rising to her feet.  "I am not out for money.  Let me see this man face justice for what he has done to Kyle and the others - that's my price."

"Then in the meantime will you accept our hospitality?  Mrs Turner has no doubt prepared a room for you."  Sherlock pulled the bell for the housemaid.  Kitty looked at Sherlock in surprise, then at John, then back at Sherlock in disbelief.  He raised an eyebrow.  "Problem?"

"Lord Saughton and I - "

"Had an affair when he was at University fifteen years ago.  Are you planning on seducing my husband again?"

Kitty smiled and shook her head.  "Lovely as it would be to rekindle old flames, I would not insult your hospitality in such a fashion, even if I were not as I am."   She touched her covered arm again, briefly.

Alice appeared and led their guest out of the room, then John turned to Sherlock and said, quietly, "I would not insult our marriage vows, either.  And not just because I made that promise to your brother."

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away at the window, and John could see a faint touch of red in his cheeks.  "I am...aware... that Alphas have certain...needs, which I am unwilling to meet at present."

"I'm _fine_ ," John said.  "I can handle my _needs_ on my own, and I wouldn't seduce someone under your roof in any case." Realizing the double _entendre_ in what he'd said, he flushed as well.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode out of the room, undoubtedly to make arrangements to visit Lady Violet.  John sat down at his desk and opened his journal to continue writing up the case, but his mind drifted to other thoughts, other memories.

* * *

 

The following day, with some reluctance, Sherlock went to see Lady Violet, accompanied by Kitty.  John wanted to go with them but Sherlock pointed out that an Omega and a Beta were more likely to gain a meeting with the Omega heiress without an Alpha present.  Reluctantly, he settled at his desk and tried to continue work on journalling their latest adventure but his mind kept straying again.  Finally, he took a blank journal out of his drawer and began writing a new entry, this time from his more distant past.

The sound of a carriage out front interrupted his writing and he hastily put the new journal into the drawer, at the back where it wouldn't be found.  He left his study and met Sherlock and Kitty at the top of the stairs.

"Did she agree to see you?  What was the result?" John asked anxiously leading the way to the parlour.

Sherlock sighed as he removed his coat and tossed it onto one of the chairs.  "Oh, there was no trouble in speaking with Lady Violet.  She seems determined to demonstrate to all her fixed resolve to marry the Baron.  I wish I knew how to make her clear to you, John.  She sat there, the demure image of a well-brought-up Omega, as remote as snow upon a mountain, or a saint whose eyes are fixed upon a world beyond our seeing.  She warned us that anything we said to her would not sway her mind, and said that the Baron had already confessed his past failings to her.  In vain I tried to impress upon her that these confessions had been the tip of the iceberg, that he had put his misdeeds in the best light in order to gain her trust.  In vain did Miss Winter describe the atrocities that the Baron has committed.  Lady Violet would hear none of it, passing our words off as unjust slanders and the jealousy of a rejected woman."

Kitty scowled.  "A more infuriatingly and willingly blind woman I never hope to see again!  It put me in a temper, I can tell you!  I even offered to privately show her the scars I received at Baron Gruner's hands but she had us turned out of the house at that point.  I would wash my hands of her and consign her to her fate, but no one deserves to be at the mercy of that beast."

"I will have to plan some fresh opening move," Sherlock said, frowning.  "If there was some way to obtain that book!  I imagine that the hangman's noose would be sufficient to end that engagement.  As it is, you may be needed to play the next part, John, unless the Baron makes a move first."

Those words proved prophetic, although sooner than any of them had anticipated.  After taking afternoon tea with them, Kitty insisted on taking her leave from them, assuring them that she would be staying with other friends in town.  John was equally insistent on sending her off in his carriage, and when it was ready, both men walked her out to it. 

John was handing Kitty into the carriage when suddenly from out of the bushes that lined the drive sprang two men armed with sticks.  They set upon Sherlock first, as he was between them and Kitty.  He blocked the blow from the first man with his walking stick before knocking him to the ground with his fist, but the second man ran up behind Sherlock, launching a blow at his head.  Sherlock's quick reflexes allowed him to move out of the way of the murderous blow but his foot slipped in the gravel.  He threw up an arm to block the blow, staggering as it hit his arm and then glanced off his temple, sending him to the ground.

"Sherlock!" John cried out, running toward his husband, horrified at the sight of blood on his temple.  He caught the attacker by the shoulder, felling him with a uppercut to the chin.  John was aware of the household coming to their aid, of the gardeners and stable lads rushing towards the fray with whatever weapon they could lay hands on.  The first man fled, pursued by the lads, but there was a carriage waiting in the drive and, once he'd reached it, the driver whipped up the horses.  The second man wasn't so fortunate, stunned by John's blow, and the footmen fell upon him, holding him fast while Turner ordered Cartwright to take horse and fetch Constable Hopkins.

John paid little heed to all this, falling to his knees beside his husband.  A quick assessment assured him that Sherlock still lived and he ripped off his cravat to provide a compress against the wound bleeding profusely on his temple.  Then he looked up, finding the coachman standing between the road and Kitty, his blunderbuss in hand.

"Take Miss Winter into town - use the back roads and watch that you are not followed.  Take one of the gamekeepers with you to hold the gun." The coachman nodded and handed the gun to a gamekeeper, then helped Kitty into the carriage before climbing up to the seat.

John looked next at Turner.  "Select the strongest of the men to take this villain to the coal cellar and lock him in until the constable arrives.  Wiggins, help me get Lord Sherlock up to his room."

Sherlock didn't recover consciousness while they carried him to his room, nor when they carefully stripped off his coat.  John sent Wiggins for his medical bag and carefully probed Sherlock's bruised arm and temple.  He determined that the cut on his forehead would need stitching and that his arm was possibly fractured, but it was Sherlock's continued unconsciousness that worried John most.  With Wiggins as his assistant, he set the stitches to close the head wound and bandaged it, then wrapped the arm.  He was tying off the bandages when Sherlock moaned and stirred, and couldn't help smiling in relief.

"Easy," he cautioned Sherlock as the man blinked open his eyes.  "You've taken quite a blow to the head."

"Yes, I can tell," Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes against the light. 

Wiggins drew the curtains and John pulled a headache powder out of his bag, mixing it in a glass of water.  "Wiggins would you help him sit up?"

"I don't need help," Sherlock said irritably, then winced at the pain that moving his arm caused.

"You might have broken your arm so yes, you need help," John told him.  Once Wiggins had Sherlock propped up, John settled a few pillows behind his back and then handed him the glass.  Sherlock made another face but John said, firmly, "Drink it all, Sherlock." 

Once Sherlock had drained the glass, John set it on the night table and then took Sherlock's face between his hands, studying his eyes.  "You have a slight concussion - we'll need to keep you awake for a few hours.  How's the arm?"

"Hurts," Sherlock said shortly.

"Not surprising considering the bruises and swelling."  He fixed a sling to support the arm, tying the knot behind Sherlock's neck.  "Keep it immobile for the rest of the day and I'll take a look at it tomorrow, see if it's broken."

Sherlock scowled and lay back against the pillows, drumming the fingers of his other hand on the covers. 

John watched him out of the corner of his eye as he tidied away his medical bag, then said, abruptly, "It was him, wasn't it?  The Baron?"

"I doubt that it was him personally - "

"You know what I mean," John snapped.  "Of course it was that damned man who set them on.  We've got one in the coal cellar, and I'll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word."

Sherlock gave him a startled look and then one corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile.  "Good, sensible John Watson!  The best, most reliable man in a crisis.  No, we can do nothing for the moment except to turn him over to the Law and hope they can garner a confession.  It's doubtful, though; the Baron will be careful to hire men he can trust and whose silence can be bought."

"I'll pay a visit to Baron Gruner myself, then," John said gruffly, a little flustered by the unexpected praise from Sherlock.  "If he thinks that he can come onto my land and attack those under my protection with impunity - "

Sherlock shook his head.  "He might be prepared for that, and I will not see you in his clutches, either.  No, we will have to wait a few days.  Give out word that I am more badly injured than I am, and that you are fully occupied tending to my injuries.  The Baron will let down his guard and then we will strike."

"And do what?" John demanded.

"I don't know yet," Sherlock admitted.  "I will formulate a plan - I will have little else to do."

"Yes, you will," John said firmly.  "You are to rest and recover."  There was a tap on the door.  "That will be word that the constable is here.  I need to see him."  He went to the door, then looked back at Sherlock, troubled.  He didn't like the way this case was going, and he was worried that it might get worse before they were done.

* * *

 

For two more days, Sherlock kept to his rooms, feigning serious injury and growing ever more irritable as he failed to come up with a plan.  "We may have to resort to the china ruse," he said gloomily.

"Now I know you were hit too hard on the head," John said, shaking his head.  He was also tired of the whole matter, as he'd spent most of the past two days fielding visits of condolence from his numerous relatives and curious friends. "Gruner would get suspicious the moment he started asking me about the history or whatever it's called."

"Provenance," Sherlock murmured.  "You're right; you are a terrible liar."  He rubbed his forehead irritably where the healing wound was beginning to itch.

"Sherlock, why don't I just go to his house and speak with him?  He attacked you at our home; it is my right to confront him."

"To what purpose?  There is no evidence that he sent those men; the one in jail hasn't spoken a word."

"The Baron won't know that," John pointed out.

Sherlock's eyes lit up.  "John, you are brilliant!" he breathed.  "Well, no, not exactly, but you spark brilliance in others."

"Namely you?" he said drily. 

"Of course.  As you suggested, you will go to the Baron's house - with Constable Hopkins," Sherlock began. 

"Hopkins has little to do with the case."

"Gruner won't know that, nor will he know that his man hasn't yet spoken to the law.  Miss Winter has furnished a written deposition saying that she recognized the two men who attacked us and hat they work for the Baron.  I am certain that the Constable will be willing to assist in this matter."

John had no doubt of that, privately believing that Hopkins would crawl over broken glass if Sherlock assured him it was necessary for a case. 

Sherlock continued.  "You and Hopkins will confront him, keep his attention, while Wiggins enters through the trade entrance and acquires the book from the desk.  Brilliant."

John tilted his head, studying his husband.  "And where will you be during all this?"

"Outside the house, waiting for Wiggins in the carriage.  With my arm like this, I can do little else."  He sighed as John's eyes narrowed.  "I swear it, John."

John considered the matter carefully.  He thought that he should have qualms about pretending that they had a confession, or at the very least feel guilty for involving Hopkins, but he didn't.  And after all, they wouldn't burglarize the house or physically accost the man, which was more than Gruner himself could claim.  When he thought about what those men could have done to Sherlock, what they clearly intended to do to Kitty, and what they had done to Kyle, his blood went cold.  Gruner was a monster and a murderer, and if they could obtain justice for his victims, then that was what he would do.  

"Very well," he said at last.  "I'll do it."

* * *

 

The following afternoon, Hopkins joined John and Sherlock in the carriage, a grim look on his face.  His eyes kept returning to the bandage on Sherlock's forehead  and the sling on his arm before he looked out the window again, and then repeating the cycle.  John couldn't fault him for that as the sight of Sherlock's injuries and the memory of the vicious attack had joined his regular repertoire of nightmares.

It took forty minutes for them to drive to Baron Gruner's house, located to the south west of Edinburgh, on the road to Haddington.  The area was full of fine houses set in little gardens,  with new cobbled roads leading off the main road.  Clearly it was a haven for the newly rich or those newly come to Edinburgh.  The carriage stopped before one of the houses to let out John and Hopkins. 

John looked up at Sherlock as he stood next to the carriage.  "You will be waiting around the corner?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh.  "As I said.  You're not going to become one of those Alphas who _hovers_ , are you?" 

Chagrined, John quickly assured him that he wasn't and briskly strode up the walkway to the door.  A servant answered and John gave his name, declining to relinquish either his hat or coat.  Hopkins stood silent behind him, doing his best to be unnoticed so that the manservant wouldn't warn the Baron.  They were shown into an elegant little parlour and a few moments later, Baron Gruner strode into the room.  He was a remarkably handsome man with a palpable magnetism, and John could see how he had managed to ensnare his many victims.  Although he was over forty, John would have mistaken him for a much younger man, closer to his own age.  He was just a few inches taller than John, built upon graceful lines, with swarthy skin and dark eyes.  His hair and moustache were dark, the latter short and waxed.  Only his mouth seemed to betray his true nature, with the straight, thin-looking lips set in cruel lines. 

Baron Gruner gave him a puzzled but welcome look as he crossed the room, his hand extended.  "You are the Earl of Saughton?  It is a pleasure to welcome you to my house."

John ignored his hand, drawing himself up to his full height.  "Baron Gruner," he said coldly.

The Baron looked amused.  "Ah, I see.  You are another who has come to convince me to give up the Lady Violet.  What is she - a cousin?  Or perhaps you have an interest there yourself." 

The tone of his words implied a sordid intent on John's part and his hands automatically clenched in fists.  "If duelling wasn't against the law, I would be calling you out for what you have done to my Omega."

The Baron's eyebrows went up with surprise and a bit of amusement, and it was clear that he had no idea who John was.  "Lord Saughton, I have no idea what your no doubt charming spouse has told you, but I assure you that it is not I who have trifled with their affections or virtue.  If they say otherwise, then I must regret to tell you that they are lying."

"My husband is Lord Sherlock Holmes-Watson," John said, each word clipped and angry.  "He is a consulting detective, and his current client is Miss Kitty Winter."   There was a flicker of something besides amusement in Gruner's eyes now, a hint of prey scenting danger, and John felt a cold satisfaction at the sight.  "After meeting with your fiancé, he and Miss Winter were followed and set upon while on the grounds of my estate.  My husband was seriously injured, and if he had died, I would have seen you hanged."  John paused.  "I may see you hanged just for daring to harm him."

Although it was an old law, rarely enforced, an Alpha could still demand a blood debt for harm to an Omega spouse.  Alarm spread across the Baron's face for a moment, then was quickly replaced by an expressionless mask, but it was enough.  The predatory Alpha in John, usually kept firmly in check, began flexing its claws, seeking revenge for injury done to its Mate. 

"I don't know where you came by this information, Lord Saughton," the Baron said coldly.  "I sympathize with your pain - my own Omega died several years ago - however it has nothing to do with me.  Now, if you will please leave my house - "

"Constable?" John said, turning towards Hopkins.  Baron Gruner visibly started, and John thought with grim amusement that the other man hadn't even paid attention to his companion.

Hopkins stepped forward and pulled out a small notebook, opening it to his case-notes.  "I'm Constable Stanley Hopkins.  Three days ago, on Tuesday afternoon, two men armed with cudgels attacked Lord Sherlock Holmes-Watson and Miss Kitty Winter on the grounds of the Saughton estate, inflicting grievous wounds to Lord Sherlock.  Upon the household being roused, one of the attackers fled but the other was subdued by his Lordship's men and he was taken into custody.  He gave his name as  Hans Schmidt but, until today, had refused to divulge his employer or their instructions.  However, Miss Winter has identified the man as being in your employ while she was your...guest in Paris two years ago."

"Bitch," Baron Gruner snarled, then recovered his composure.  "The lady - if I might call her that, although she does not deserve such courtesy - and I had a brief _affaire_ while I was in Paris.  I ended it, and she has pursued me ever since, trying to squeeze money from me."

John examined the paintings on the wall as he said, casually, "Miss Winter and I were lovers several years ago and she never asked for money from me.  Nor did she accept my financial aid when I offered it several days ago."

Baron Gruner swallowed.  "She is jealous that I am to marry another.  She wishes my name and title."

John turned around sharply, meeting the Baron's eyes fiercely.  "Kitty is not such a fool as to want to be bound to a man like you.  She tried to leave you in Paris, and you set these same men on her, and on Kyle Hunter, who died from his injuries."

"Lies!" Gruner spat out.

Hopkins removed a paper from his notebook and unfolded it.  "Miss Winter has given a formal deposition.  We can't touch you for what you did in foreign parts, but I am arresting you for conspiring to murder Lord Sherlock - "

A sudden noise from the back of the house caught all their attention and Baron Gruner let out a curse, dashing towards the doorway.  There he was halted by the sudden appearance of a woman, cloaked and veiled, who stood on the threshold between him and escape.  They froze for a moment in a terrible tableaux, then she flung up her arm towards his face.  The Baron uttered a horrible cry, clapping his hands to his face, and fell to his knees.

"Water!" he cried out, his voice strident with pain.  "For God's sake, water!"

John moved swiftly, catching up a carafe of water from a side-table as he crossed to the stricken man.  The Baron was writhing on the floor, hands pressed tightly against his face, and John dropped to one knee next to him and dashed the contents of the carafe over the man's face and hands.  The manservant and a maid ran in from the hall and John heard the choked-off scream from the girl before she fainted, but he was prying the hands away from the injured man's face and paid no heed to her.  He turned the ravaged face towards the light coming in from the windows, suppressing his natural sense of horror at the sight before him.  The vitriol had eaten into it everywhere, and the once handsome features now looked like a painting that had been smeared by a damp sponge while still wet.  One eyeball was already white and glazed while the other was red and inflamed, and John had little doubt that he would lose sight in it as well. 

Of the mysterious veiled woman there was no sign.

He sent Hopkins for his medical bag in the carriage and the servant for water and oil, as well as clean cloth.  Hopkins returned shortly, accompanied by Sherlock, while John was bathing the injured man's face with oil.  John opened his bag to remove a syringe of morphine which he administered to the Baron, who was writing and moaning in pain.  Then he placed gauze over the Baron's sightless eyes before allowing the servants to carry him up to his bed and advising that they send for his personal physician.  Hopkins remained behind to give details about the attack to the local constables when they arrived while John and Sherlock climbed into their carriage and headed towards home.

"Did you know what she intended to do?" John asked quietly when he could no longer bear the silence.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches.  "I spoke to her after she gave Hopkins her deposition, telling her that we intended to visit the Baron and our purpose.  She must have been watching the house and followed Wiggins in."  He paused, uncharacteristically hesitant.  "John, perhaps it is for the best.  The Baron has slid out of the clutches of the Law before and likely would again.  Damaged as he is now, and with his reputation soon to be in tatters, Lady Violet will certainly break off the engagement."

John was silent, uncertain whether he could agree with this pronouncement.  He had seen many horrible things during his time in the army, men disfigured by all manner of weapons, faces torn away by gunpowder blasts, bodies wasted by the ravages of disease.  He had heard of the Baron's monstrous actions, had grieved for the vicious death of a man he had once known intimately, and the predator inside him rejoiced that the man who had dared raise a hand to his Omega was suffering and would continue to suffer.  Surely it was no more than what the man was due - the wages of sin, as it were - but his physician's heart couldn't help being troubled by his part in bringing this man low.

"The book?" he asked, finally.  "Did we accomplish that at least?"

Sherlock nodded, patting the burlap wrapped bundle on his lap.  "Wiggins had no trouble obtaining it and was not seen."

John stared at the bundle as if it contained a particularly deadly snake.  "What do you intend to do with it?  You aren't - you don't intend to read it, do you?"   Just the thought of the atrocities purported to be recorded in that book turned John's stomach.  Every feeling rebelled at the idea of Sherlock being exposed to the filth it contained, but he bit back his instinctive need to protect his Omega.

Sherlock gave him a piercing sideways look, no doubt reading all of this with a single glance.  "No, I see no need for that.  I glanced briefly at the title page to ascertain that it was the book we wanted, and it is."

"Well, thank Christ for that.  I'd hate to think it was all a waste," John muttered.

"As for my intentions...I thought that I would give it to your cousin in the Lord Advocate's office tomorrow, at your uncle's card party."  Sherlock gave John another uncertain sideways look.  "I believe that will serve the purpose without further involvement on our part."

John nodded, letting out a relieved breath.  "And then on Monday we head back to London."

"Yes.  And I, for one, will be glad to be home.  I do not know why everyone claims that the countryside is so healthy for one - I have found it to be quite the opposite."

Sherlock's tone was a combination of indignation, bewilderment, and complaint, and John couldn't help bursting into giggles.  And, a few minutes later, he heard his husband's deep chuckles join in.

* * *

 

_Personal note - J.H. Watson_

_Baron Gruner recovered from his injuries but he was permanently blinded in both eyes and so scarred that he immediately retired from public view.  Although the wedding was delayed, Lady Violet de Merville initially stood by him.  But as rumours about his unsavoury past increased and indictments for his crimes began to be issued, a notice ending the engagement was printed in the Edinburgh papers shortly before Lady Violet left for a visit to relatives in South Africa.   As Lord Sherlock had recovered from his injuries with no residual effects, I declined to bring action against the Baron in favour of his extradition to Austria to face charges for the murder of his wife._

_The identity of his attacker was never proved as she was veiled and didn't speak.  However, Kitty Winter disappeared from Edinburgh on the same day, never to be seen again.  Private inquiries have failed to discover her location, although there are rumours that she has gone into seclusion on the Tuscan estate of one of Italy's finest painters.  
_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue and text has been adapted from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories, in particular "The Illustrious Client" and "The Adventure of Black Peter". I also owe a debt of gratitude to Ariane DeVere for her transcrpts. Only a small bit has been used (from "The Hounds of Baskerville") but she has provided an invaluable resourch for all writers.


	25. Part II: Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return to London and begin to settle back into their lives there, now as a married couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bathing chambers and indoor plumbing were just coming into use in areas like London, and are mentioned in "A Civil Contract". Newer areas of development, like Baker Street, had sewage pipes and indoor water connected earlier than some of the older areas of the city. 
> 
> Diagrams of Baker Street can be found in the [ Worldbuilding section](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/4425819).

On a mild morning in March, when the first hints of spring were in the air and the bitter chill began to give way to spring sunlight, John and Sherlock entered the large travelling carriage to return to London.  Their road took them past Ratho on their way to Glasgow, and they briefly stopped to take leave of Harry and her family, with promises to show the younger family members the sights of London when they followed to London the following month.  
  
The roads were dry and they made good time, stopping for a late luncheon in Glasgow and then proceeding south-east, arriving in Stewarton by mid-afternoon.  It was too late to pay a call on Mr. Kerr, but Sherlock sent Wiggins with his card to announce their arrival while they stretched their legs with a stroll through the village before sitting down to an adequate dinner at the inn.  

After breaking their fast the next morning, they made their way to the Kerr estate where they were greeted warmly by Robert Kerr.  He was an affable man of middle years, quite proud of what he'd achieved with his hives and willing to show them to curious strangers.  He took them into his workshop and showed Sherlock a hive that had been damaged, which he had cut away so that he could show them the internal structure.  Sherlock studied it with an intensity that John had thus far only seen focused on clues at a crime scene, then shot off questions to Kerr as rapidly as he got answers.  Terms like bee space, honey boxes, brood trays, and harvesting techniques were tossed about, Kerr lighting up as it became clear that this visitor shared his passion.  Soon both men were donning protective gear before approaching the closest apiary, as Kerr demonstrated how his innovative techniques worked in an active hives. 

John declined the offer to join them, retiring to a bench at a safe distance to smoke his pipe and watch his husband.  Even favouring his bruised and battered arm, Sherlock moved among the hives with a care that was totally at odds with his usual impetuousness when solving crimes.  His movements were slow and patient as he and Kerr eased out one of the frames to study the comb.  It fascinated John to watch that sharp intellect turn towards something so small as a bee, and he could see the tension ease out of Sherlock's shoulders as he and Kerr studied the hives.  By the time they returned to where he waited, John had determined to do whatever was necessary to procure such hives for Sherlock before they returned to Scotland in the fall.  
  
The other men removed their protective clothing while still continuing to talk, and John followed in their wake as they entered the house.  There Mrs. Kerr welcomed them warmly and offered them tea along with thick slices of fresh bread, along with a selection of honey from their hives.  This intrigued Sherlock as much as the hives, and he pelted Kerr with questions about the separation of apiaries to different parts of their farm so that they could collect specific types of honey.   John contented himself with tasting the results of the harvest and then arguing with Sherlock over their favourites.

Mrs. Kerr laughed as she packed a basket with little jars of honey to take with them.  "Ye argue like auld married folk," she teased John.  "But it's odds he'll talk ye round at the end of it!"

Sherlock went scarlet at that, but John grinned.  "True enough."

"You are not so easily swayed," Sherlock replied, his high colour fading as he took the basket from Mrs. Kerr.  "Your steadfastness of purpose is one of your most admirable traits, John."  
  
John was struck speechless by this unusual praise and stood staring after his husband as Kerr walked him out to the carriage, promising to send one of his hives to Saughton to serve as a model for Sherlock.  
  
Mrs. Kerr patted John's arm and smiled at him warmly.  "It's a pleasure tae see young folk sae much in love.  Ye can hardly take eyes off him."  
  
John felt himself flush but he managed to thank Mrs. Kerr for her hospitality before he followed the other men as they walked down to the inn.  Fortunately, he'd requested a horse to ride during the first leg of their journey that day, and the briskness of the wind explained the colour in his cheeks by the time he rejoined Sherlock in the carriage.  He was even able to discuss Drumlanrig Castle, where they were to stop that night, with equanimity.  The new young Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry was a distant cousin - Sherlock had rolled his eyes at that - and John had known his father, who had commanded the Royal Archers in the Peninsula.  The elderly Dowager Duchess had been unable to attend Harry and Clara's party, but she had written to invite John to visit them on their way back to London.  As she had been a noted political hostess as well as a peeress in her own right, John had been advised to court her advice when he was confirmed as a Representative Peer for Scotland.   Drumlanrig Castle was as beautiful as he'd been told and their reception had been warm.  The boy Duke was an eager audience for John's stories about the Peninsula, and his grandmother was as gracious as her reputation had said.  She'd had much practical advice in regard to Sherlock's introduction at Court and the current political situation in Scotland, so John rated the visit a success.  
  
After leaving Drumlanrig, they continued their trip toward London through Scotch Corner and then south with no incidents, a vastly different adventure than the one they'd had on their journey north.  John didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed, for the misadventures had relieved some of the tedium of the journey.  However, by now he and Sherlock were more comfortable with each other, and the long silences punctuated by animated conversation were not as fraught with tension.  John didn't notice, at least consciously, that this time his thoughts weren't wrapped around the bitter-sweet thought of his lost love.  

The roads were snow-free and dry and in good repair, and after only three more nights on the road, they arrived at Baker Street by late Saturday afternoon.  Mrs. Hudson was delighted to see them embracing each in turn while clucking over their weary and travel-stained appearance.  
  
"You just go up to the sitting room, my lord, and rest a bit while we get your trunks upstairs," she said firmly as she hung their outer coats on the hooks in the hallway.  "I've got the kettle on, and I made some of those biscuits you like, Sherlock dear."

John followed Sherlock up the seventeen steps to the sitting room and was relieved to be able to settle into one of the comfortable armchairs.  After days on the road following weeks living among renovations at Saughton, it was a blessing to take his ease in familiar surroundings.  He looked around the room fondly, appreciating the homely comfort of the place instead of the fashionable frippery Janet had imposed upon Saughton.   
  
Sherlock, however, took a swift look around the room and let out an exasperated growl.  "Mycroft has been _meddling_."

John looked around the room again and failed to see much of a change, except that it seemed tidier than during his last visit.  The teetering pile of books had been shelved, the ocean of papers tidied away, and the table in the little dining area was clean for a change, with dishes laid out for supper.  John's stomach growled.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted, stalking around the room and looking into cupboards.  "Where are my papers and experiments?"

"Not in the parlour, brother dear," Mycroft said, strolling in through the open sitting room door. John frowned; he hadn't seen Mycroft downstairs and hadn't heard the door knocker.  He hoped that his brother-in-law hadn't helped himself to a key to the house.  "A young lad let me in - one of your Irregulars, I presume?  And your valet is an interesting choice as well, Sherlock."

John could have sworn that he heard Sherlock's teeth grinding together.  "He is loyal to me and unable to be bribed.  Now - my experiments?"

"All safe and tidy, Sherlock, in the study at the end of the hall.  I hope that his Lordship will forgive the usurping of it for your needs?"

"That was my _bedroom_ ," Sherlock said furiously, storming down the hallway and flinging open the door to the back room.  

Mycroft shuddered.  "On the first floor?  How unsuitable!  You will find that I have had the room fitted with a laboratory table and equipment, as well as storage areas.  Much more practical than the dining table."

Sherlock returned to the sitting room, still scowling.  "It's useful, I suppose, but where am I to sleep?"

"You will find that your bedchamber has been relocated on the second floor, in the room adjoining John's.   I have taken the liberty of having the furnishings updated, as well as those on the third floor."

"There's a new bathing chamber on the second floor," Mrs. Hudson said enthusiastically as she entered with the tea tray.  "And a water-closet on this floor and the ground one - very ingenious it is, too."

"Really?" Sherlock was momentarily diverted from his grievances. "I thought you declared the one at Russell Square an infernal nuisance, Mycroft."

"This is the new Bramah model," Mycroft replied.  "Vastly superior to the earlier ones.  I have had my own water closet replaced as well."

Intrigued, John investigated the discreet little room tucked at the back of the staircase.  The device installed inside was a very modern looking privy, with a water-filled porcelain bowl that, with a pull from a chain above, emptied and then refilled from a cistern mounted on the wall.  It was very odd looking and noisy, but a vast improvement on the smell of the privy at Saughton.  

"And you say there is a bathing chamber upstairs?" John asked Mycroft.  "I understand that some of the newest hotels have them but I've never seen one."

Sherlock was also eager to see the modern bathing chamber and led the way up to the second floor where a storage closet at the back of the house had been refitted.  A large enamel tub with feet similar to a crocodile filled most of the space, except for a cylindrical device in the corner.  Sherlock examined this with interest.

"Look, John!  The water is heated here and then goes into the tub through this pipe.  I wonder what fuel is used to heat it," he muttered, and looked as if he was minutes away from dismantling the unit to investigate its inner workings.

"How is the water taken away?" John asked hastily, hoping to divert Sherlock's attention.  It worked - in a moment, Sherlock was lying on the floor and peering under the claw-footed tub.  

"Pipes, John, like the ones from the water-closet.  No more lugging water up and down the stairs."

"That's a relief, m'lord," Wiggins said from where he peered around the open doorway into the room.  "Me arms would be perishin' tired, no footmen bein' around to share the work."

Mycroft visibly preened under the appreciation given to his modernizations of the house and expounded knowledgeably on cisterns that apparently required daily pumping and stop-cocks that needed regular adjusting.  John grew bored within a few minutes and decided to take a look into the two other rooms on that floor.  The first, running along the side of the house, was clearly his for his trunk stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be unpacked.  He was relieved to see that there were no modernizations, that it was just a simple room with a fireplace and window looking into the back garden, and comfortable furniture.  John opened the connecting door to the front bedroom and took a quick look, noting that Sherlock's bedchamber was furnished in similar style.  Sherlock's trunks were sitting under the window, waiting to be unpacked.

Returning to the hallway, John decided against investigating the top floors that day and instead returned to the sitting room where Mrs. Hudson poured out tea and handed him a plate of little sandwiches and biscuits.  They were joined a few minutes later by Sherlock and Mycroft, and it was clear from the animated discussion between them that brotherly harmony had been restored, however briefly.

Mycroft accepted a cup of tea but declined the sandwiches, citing a dinner engagement later that evening.  John wondered if that meant that crime had picked up, or if the dinner engagement was with Lestrade, but he didn't feel comfortable asking.  
  
"Putting on weight again, brother?" Sherlock asked snidely, indicating that the brief peace was at an end.  
  
Mycroft gave him a thin smile.  "Losing, in fact.  How was Scotland?"  
  
"Cold.  Wet.  Surprisingly full of crime."  Sherlock declined a cup of tea, choosing to sprawl full-length on the sofa instead.  Mycroft frowned at his brother, then his gaze narrowed before he turned to rake John over with his intent stare.

"So I see," Mycroft replied.  "Perhaps you should have continued to wear the sling for a few more days to allow your arm to finish healing."

"It wasn't broken, Mycroft, merely bruised.  John has fussed enough so don't you start."

"It was good, actually," John said hastily before Mycroft could irritate his brother more.  "Sherlock saved a few lives, prevented a young woman from irreparably ruining her future, and sorted out several other crimes.  It was quite incredible."  From out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock give him a quick, surprised look before turning a smirk on his brother.  
  
"Yes, that's all very well, although not restful for a honeymoon," Mycroft said, putting down his tea cup.  "I'm afraid that I have to be leaving - that prior engagement.  Perhaps you would see me to the door, John?"  
  
John rose agreeably but Sherlock snapped out, "Don't, Mycroft.  It is none of your concern.  I am married now."  
  
"You will forgive me for wishing to ensure that you remain so," Mycroft said and, with a growl, Sherlock turned on his side, presenting his back to the room.  
  
Mrs. Hudson tutted at that but went off to see about the roast for dinner.  John followed Mycroft down the stairs, wondering if there would be enough time for a wash in that marvellous new bath - if he could determine how it worked.  
  
"Lord Saughton - "  
  
John raised an eyebrow.  "Weren't you going to call me 'John'?"  
  
"John, then.  I am reluctant to interfere in my brother's marriage - "  
  
"Then don't," John said mildly.  He lifted down Mycroft's coat from the peg and held it open for him.  
  
" - however, the possibility of grounds for an annulment - "  
  
John stiffened, seeing immediately where this was going.  He turned to face Mycroft squarely.  "Not that it is any of your business, but no, there will be no annulment, not on my part."  
  
Mycroft raised both of his eyebrows.  "I see.  You are taking a risk, you know.  _He_ could change his mind.  If the marriage is annulled, you will lose the settlement and I could collect on the mortgages."  
  
"The risk is mine to take."  He lifted his chin.  "I would think that you would be relieved to know that I respect your brother's wishes and will not force myself on him."  
  
Mycroft drew in a deep breath and let it out, then nodded briskly.  "Then let it be on your head, Lord Saughton.  Good evening."  
  
John closed the door behind Mycroft and stood for a moment, lost in thought.  Then he wearily climbed the stairs to his bedchamber to change his travel-stained clothing before dinner.   Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't notice that he was favouring his leg as he mounted the stairs, nor did he notice that his new husband had come to the sitting room door and watched John with narrowed eyes as he made his way up to the second floor.

* * *

 

Lestrade dropped by to visit them the next afternoon and, without much difficulty, John persuaded him to join them for Sunday dinner.  Mycroft's 'engagement', it turned out, was at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton where plans for the Coronation were being made and where he would be for several days.  Lestrade was more than delighted to join them for the afternoon and evening, listening with amusement as John spun out the tales of their latest adventures.

Once John had finished with their latest case, that of the _Illustrious Villain_ , Lestrade said, "If I didn't know Sherlock, I would think your stories fiction.  They are as good as the novels my daughter gets from the lending library.  You should write them down."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Don't encourage him, Lestrade.  He has taken to documenting the most ludicrous details while completely ignoring all the important features of my cases."

"Sherlock, it  is _not_ unimportant to know that the earth goes 'round the sun!" John protested with a laugh.

Lestrade's eyebrows rose.  "Really?  You don't know that? _Really_?"

Sherlock gave an impatient sigh.  "What does it matter if the earth goes around the sun or 'round and 'round the  garden like a teddy bear? Is it likely to impact on a case?"

John shrugged.  "You never can tell."  He looked at the remains of their repast with a contented sigh, reflecting that for comfortable home dinners, Mrs. Hudson might be difficult for Cook to best.  "Shall we take our port and cigars into the sitting area to allow Mrs. Hudson to clear table?"

The other two men had no fault to find with this scheme, and before long they were settled into the comfortable chairs of the sitting room, puffing on cigars as they sipped from the brandy they'd received from Coutts & Cox as a wedding gift.

"Speaking of cases," Sherlock said after a moment of quiet contentment, "has there been any further information on the new Ratcliffe murders?"

Lestrade nodded as he took a sip of brandy.  "I thought you might like to come 'round to the office tomorrow to take a look at the newest reports.  We've run into some difficulties - the latest uprisings in the Dublin area have destroyed records and disbursed many families living in the area where Mrs. Wilson was born.  However, we've had a promising new line of inquiry around Miss Davenport."

"You've located her contact?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

Lestrade shrugged.  "Possibly.  Donovan talked with a number of Miss Davenport's friends at Somerset House, and it appears that she had just started walking out with a young man."

"A young man?"  Sherlock asked sharply.  "Not an older one?"

"No, definitely young.  The friends never met him - apparently he's a bit of a reclusive bookworm - but Miss Davenport talked about him.  He is a history student _and_ he is writing a book about the original Ratcliffe Highway murders."

"Interesting," Sherlock remarked.  "There have been a few such books - what was his particular interest?"

"He wanted to talk with the murderer's family and was trying to locate them.  Miss Davenport approached one of the other girls in the London records section about obtaining a copy of John Williams's death certificate to find his next of kin, but she refused to provide it without proper authorization.  The reason he approached Miss Davenport was because she was the primary clerk for the Irish records section and he had her doing research for him.  We found notes, although some may have gone missing, but the records she pulled were locked in her drawers.  We learned that Jennifer Wilson had another brother, younger than her, named Sean who would have been roughly the same age as John Williams, so it's possible that they are the same person."

"And were you able to gather any more information from Mrs. Wilson's home parish?"

Lestrade shook his head.  "I'm afraid not.  The local parish church was one of the targets of the Irish Republicans and the minister was killed as well.  However, I wrote to the local constabulary and they know the family.  It appears that Sean Murphy Senior married the daughter of the largest mill owner in the area, and Murphy's father was descended from two of the landed gentry of the area.  And it transpires that both Sean and his eldest son, Liam, were killed last December when the Gallagher cotton mill burned down.  Arson is suspected because of the intensity of the fire and the timing, coinciding with other destruction in the area."

John frowned.  "If Jennifer Wilson's father is already dead, then he can't have been the one behind the recent murders.  Did she have any other brothers?"

Lestrade shook his head.  "Not living, if Sean the Younger is our John Williams.  Her remaining living sister apparently went back to Scotland with a Scottish army officer, along with their children, but the constabulary doesn't know where precisely.  We're still trying to obtain lists of the officers stationed in Dublin at the time."

"What about this young man of hers?"

"That's where things get really interesting," Lestrade confided.  "Her friends _think_ his name is Richard Brooke, and he is thought to have a position at the British Museum.  Only the Museum has no record of any employees by that name.  Donovan and I went 'round to all the colleges and universities in the area and none of them have a student registered by that name.  So either her friends got the name wrong - "

"- or Richard Brooke is an alias," Sherlock finished.  He steepled his fingers under his chin, looking serious.  "An alias, then, but who is he really?  And why the interest in these five people."

"Five?" John frowned, trying to focus his memory.  "Miss Davenport, Mr. Phillimore, Mrs. Wilson..."

"John Williams or Sean Murphy, and you, John."

John shook his head.  "I don't see where I fit into any of this.  I have never been to Ireland and I have never met any of these people.  I had never been to this area of London, even during my student years.  Is it possible that I was targeted simply to get to you, Sherlock?  By that time, the notice of our engagement had appeared in the papers."

"It's possible," Sherlock said reluctantly.  "I feel that something is missing, though.  Something that I should know, that's on the tip of my tongue."

"Come to the office tomorrow and look over the notes," Lestrade said, settling back into the sofa and taking another swallow of his brandy.  "That might jog your thoughts."

"Perhaps," Sherlock conceded reluctantly.  "In any case, the brains behind the murders appears to have gone to ground for now.  We shall have to wait for his next move."

Lestrade sighed.  "That's what worries me."

"Cheer up, Lestrade," John said, sitting back in his chair and smiling at the other two men.  "Now that Sherlock Holmes is back in London, I doubt that we'll have to wait for long.   What criminal could resist the chance to pit themselves against him?"

John had the momentary thought that any sane, rational man would find fault with that notion, but as Sherlock was giving John a surprised but pleased look, he decided that "sane" and "rational" were dull virtues.     And life with Sherlock was certain to be anything but dull.

  
End of Part 2: The Blind Bridegroom  
  
 


	26. Part III: Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock settle into Baker Street and resume their investigation into the recent murders. They uncover a few surprising bits of information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so starts Part III (of Four) in the story, entitled "The Great Game". Three guesses who will make an appearance - and the first two don't count.

Part III: The Great Game

Chapter One

 

John and Sherlock quickly settled into their new London home, sorting out household matters over the next few days.  After Sherlock reduced their sitting room to chaos on the first day - which had Sherlock and Mrs Hudson shouting at each other about visitors and pig-sties - an agreement was reached by all.  The ground floor parlour was reserved for formal visitors and clients, not to be encroached upon by Sherlock's "mess".  That was religated to the sitting room on the first floor, which quickly acquired a lived-in feeling that suited both of them.  Although Sherlock's habit of putting cigars in the coal scuttle and pipe tobacco in a Persian slipper hanging off the fireplace mantle baffled John at first, he quickly became accustomed to both.  A small desk with matching chair was unearthed from the lumber room in the attic for John's use, installed along the wall between the two windows.  His journals went into the bottom drawer and his bits&bobs in the top one, although John quickly learned that Sherlock would requisition the desk whenever he felt too lazy to walk down the hall to his own workroom.  However, Sherlock limited the majority of his clutter and all of his experiments to the back room - or at least he did after John gave him a bear-garden jaw for setting fire to their dining table. 

John's bedchamber was quite comfortably appointed and quiet, with its window looking over the back garden, and his first tentative trial of the bathing tub proved such a success that he decided to make its use a weekly event.  On the day after their arrival he ventured up to the third floor to discover a small nursery and two bedchambers. one occupied by Wiggins and Billy, and one clearly appointed for a future nursery-maid.  He thought it fortunate that Wiggins wasn't a proper valet because surely no gentleman's gentleman would deign to share chambers with a scrubby young boy, but Wiggins was cheerfully indifferent to the matter. And, truth be told, there were no other options unless they put the boy in the nursery.  The bedchamber next to the parlour was Mrs Hudsons', with the kitchen in the extension at the back of the house.  A quick look into the basement showed it occupied by the scullery, pantry, coal bin, and staff room, with a tiny dark room for a scullery maid if they hired one.  This, of course, negated the idea of engaging his own valet for there was simply no place to house one.  Or a butler or footman, for that matter, although Sherlock gave him a puzzled look when he brought it up.

"Why do we need a butler?  Or a footman?  We're hardly leaders of the Ton, and Mrs Hudson can handle any visitors."

"And the cooking, and the cleaning, and the shopping," John reminded him.  "Once you are presented at Court we will have morning visitors, plus clients." 

Sherlock reluctantly agreed to the hiring of a housemaid and scullery maid, the former to use the nursery-maid's room for the present, and then blithely forgot the whole matter.  And having exhausted his own patience for domestic matters, John gladly turned his own attention back toward the Work. The matter of space versus staff would wait for now, especially since John was not eager to put the Nursery to its proper use just yet.

Once their domestic affairs were set in order, thoughts turned toward the Work.  A few days after their return to London, John found himself in a hansom cab on the way to Wapping Street Station again.   They were greeted with congratulations by the constables on duty as they headed up to Lestrade's office, although Donovan scowled and quickly left the room when they entered. 

"All settled in, then?" Lestrade asked, waving them to chairs at the work table.  Piles of paper and ledgers were scattered over the surface, and John wondered if they were all related to the recent murders or if Lestrade had other cases to work.

Lestrade picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to Sherlock.  "These are the interviews of Miss Davenport's friends and co-workers.  I thought you might like to look over them, see if they suggest any lines of inquiry to locate Mrs Wilson's sister in Scotland, to see if she lives still."  He then handed John one of the ledgers.  "The lists of the regiments in Ireland at the time.  Since Mycroft says that your family is related to many of the noble families of Scotland, I thought you might recognize names."

Sherlock poked at a locked box sitting on the table.  "What's in here?"

"The contents of Miss Davenport's desk." 

Sherlock held out his hand and, when Lestrade didn't immediately hand him the key, scowled at him.  "Well?"

"You will be careful with the items in there, yeah?" Lestrade cautioned.  "We have to return them - intact - to Somerset House."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers impatiently and, with a sigh, Lestrade unlocked the box.  Sherlock pulled out the contents, setting aside a dozen birth certificates in order to go through the rest of the items.  John watched him out of the corner of his eye, seeing him carefully examine the detritus of the young woman's life, which appeared to consist of a number of pencil stubs, quills, bands, and a little flask.  When Sherlock turned back to the documents, John focused his attention back to the ledgers, sighing as he saw how many years were represented.

"What am I looking for?"

"Regiments stationed in Dublin when Saraid Murphy's second child was born," Sherlock said absently, paging through the birth certificates before returning to the first one to look at it carefully.

"Which was?"

"1807," Sherlock said, extracting one of the documents and whirling it onto the table near John.  "He will have been an officer in a Scottish regiment stationed in Dublin from at least 1806 but not much before that."

"Why not?" Lestrade asked.

"Jennifer Wilson nee Murphy ran away to be married in 1805.  There is no indication that they were in contact, no letters at Mrs Wilson's rooms, which points to an estrangement.  If she simply didn't know where Saraid's lover's regiment was now stationed, she could have inquired at the House Guards.  Therefore, when Jennifer Murphy eloped, her sister was living at home with her bastard son and Jennifer had no reason to think that Saraid ever left their parents' home."

"Saraid Murphy's lover might not have been Scottish," John said, turning the pages of the ledger documenting troops stationed at Dublin's military post, looking for 1806.  "He could have been an Englishman in a Scottish regiment, or a Scot in an English one.  Like me."

"Possibly but unlikely," Sherlock said absently.  "The constable's notes said that she went with him to his home in Scotland."

"He could have been a commoner, someone I wouldn't recognize."

"He was an officer," Sherlock said decisively, turning to look at Lestrade as he said, "You said that Sean Murphy Senior was descended from two prominent Irish families, and that his wife was the heir to a large textile fortune, so how would a young Beta of that class meet a soldier?  The same way they meet anywhere - at balls and assemblies and card parties.  Common soldiers are not invited to such festivities, therefore he was an officer."

John turned the pages of the ledger documenting the Irish garrison postings, writing them down on a piece of foolscap so he could look up their rosters.  "There are quite a number of them.  However, most don't seem to fit.  The 24th was in Ireland from 1804 to 1807 but then went to the West Indies.  The 46th left Cork in 1804 for Dominica.  The 71st was in Limerick, not Dublin.  The 26th and 91st arrived in Cork in May of 1807."

"Too late."

"A number of second battalions were stationed in Ireland, no doubt for recruitment and training," John said.  "The 21st from 1806 to 1811 would fit.  The 30th from 1804, but they were posted to Gibraltar in 1809.  The 39th was in Dublin in 1806 but then on the Continent.  The 40th was in Ireland from 1806 to 1814, but not Dublin.  The 42nd was in Dublin from 1805 to 1807, then in Glasgow, so that's a possibility."  He made a note.  "The 2nd battalion of the 92nd arrived in 1806, returned to Scotland in 1811."  John frowned.  "That was James's regiment.  I probably know most of the officers since our cousin, George Gordon, raised the regiment."

"Of course he did," Sherlock murmured, and John could feel the amused look his husband gave him.

"Hush, you."  He picked up the copy of the birth record, glancing down on the names on it, and then his hand tightened on the page so much that Lestrade called out a warning.

Sherlock's gaze focused on his face.  "John?"

"Saraid's other child.  The birth record," John asked, his throat feeling tight.  "Where is it?"

Sherlock silently handed him the second record and John looked at it, then back at the first.  _Hamish Murphy_ , read the first, and _Seamus Murphy_   was listed on the second.  He set both down carefully, noting the birth year for Seamus, and flipped back through the ledger to 1796.  There, stationed at Dublin, was the 1st Battalion of the 92nd Regiment, with a note that they'd gone on to Gibraltar in 1797.  He'd had a letter from James while he was in Gibraltar, with a coin under the seal for his birthday.   Knowing that the others were watching him curiously, he located the roster for the 92nd, tracing down its history.  It had been formed in 1794 by George Gordon, and yes, Lt.  James Watson, Viscount Cammo, was listed among the officers.  He traced down the page, noting the formation of the 2nd Battalion in 1803 and the appointment of Major James Watson to it, followed in 1806 by a posting to Dublin.  He shut the ledger.

"John?" Sherlock repeated.  "You have found something."

"I have." John wet his lips.  "I know the name of Saraid Murphy's lover, and her present whereabouts, as well as that of her youngest son.  And I think I know why Hope's patron wanted to abduct and question me."

"Well, don't hold back, man!" Lestrade demanded.

"James Watson," John replied.  "His name was James Watson, the 8th Earl of Saughton.  Saraid Murphy - now known as Sarah Martin - is married to my head gardener.  The younger son, known as Hamish Watson, is apprenticed to the estate manager of the Dower House.   I don't know where the older boy is now - he was sent back to Ireland in 1813."

"Well, fuck," Lestrade said, then hastily added, "Beg your pardon, my lord."

"Don't apologize, Lestrade.  John's curses are much worse _and_ more inventive," Sherlock said absently, a slight frown on his face as he rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers under his chin.  "We know the murderer was at Mrs Wilson's rooms, to remove the family Bible.  He must have questioned her about her sister's whereabouts - was she was warning us that Seamus was the next intended victim?  When he couldn't get the information from her, he must have decided to target James's family - you- for the information he needs."

"But why me?  I wasn't even in England at the time! I had no idea that the boys even existed until last month!" John protested. 

"You are certain that James is the father of both boys?" Sherlock asked. 

John nodded.  "Apparently it is common knowledge.  Harry knows, and Wimmering as well.  James brought Sarah and the two boys back with him, settled the Lodge on Sarah as a dowry, and she married Martin, the gardener."

The frown-line deepened on Sherlock's forehead.  "He must have met her in '96 when he was briefly posted in Dublin and seduced her.  Was that possible?"

"For James, yes," John said drily.  "He always had every Beta and Omega panting after him.  He was very charismatic, couldn't help himself from tumbling from one bed to another.  But he was usually very careful, and Sarah would have been very young - only fourteen, younger than he generally preferred."

"I imagine that he didn't know she was pregnant when he left Ireland the first time," Sherlock said, nodding to himself.  "Their father no doubt kept a sharpish eye on his daughters after that.  Then Jennifer ran off and the older sister - Shannon?"

"Sionaid," Lestrade said, looking at his notes.

" - died, so it's just Sarah and her son penned up by her father.  Then Sarah's handsome young lover comes back, so of course she escaped herself and went off with him."

"What I want to know is this," Lestrade said.  "Who is killing the Murphy family, and why?  The father and mother, all their children except Sarah, are dead.  Do you think Sarah could have done these murders?"

"It's possible," John said doubtfully.  "But it would be difficult for her to come here to London - "

"No, no, it's not her," Sherlock said, waving his hand impatiently.  "The cab driver clearly indicated that his patron was a man.  And then there is Richard Brooke, who is somehow involved in the matter, and possibly the patron himself."

"What about the boys?" Lestrade asked.  "Sarah's sons."

"Hamish is too young - he's only fourteen.  Although..."  John paused, then shook his head.  "He would have the same problem coming to London as his mother -"

"You were about to say something else," Sherlock interrupted.  "You stopped yourself.  What was it?"

John sighed.  "It was about Hamish's brother.  Seamus apparently was...difficult.  When he was fifteen, he was involved in the accidental death of James's eldest daughter.  He seduced the nanny, and the nursery-maid, so that little Jane was left alone and she fell to her death.  That's why they sent him away."

"To Ireland."  Lestrade sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair.  "Well, I'll see if the Dublin constabulary knows anything about Seamus Murphy or Martin or Watson.  If he was sent to one of Sarah's family, then _someone_ must know _something_."  He sighed again.  "Half the difficulty is convincing other law enforcement to cooperate with us.  It would help if there was a unified police force."

"Not going to happen," John said simply.  "People are too afraid of that, afraid that what happened in France could happen here."

"Sir Robert Peel has ideas, some of them decent," Sherlock said and both men looked at him.  Lestrade raised an eyebrow.   "What?  I occasionally listen when Mycroft talks, as long as it isn't boring politics."  He turned to his husband.  "John.  The nursery-maid.  I know her, don't I?"

John nodded.

Sherlock's mouth tightened.  "Right.  Well."  He took a deep breath and stood.  "So glad we could clear up a little bit of this mystery, Lestrade, but we've got to dash.  Shopping to do - I'm being presented at Court, did you know?  Come, John!"

Sherlock whirled out of the room, leaving John to give their farewells to  the clearly baffled but amused Surveyor.  He caught up with Sherlock hailing a cab outside and, once they were on their way, turned to his husband.

"You have already ordered your suit for Court, it was delivered yesterday," John said.  "Would you like to tell me where we're really going?"

"To visit a friend," Sherlock replied cryptically, then stared out the window which John knew meant that he wouldn't learn anything more at present.

The cab delivered them to St. Bart's and John followed Sherlock through the familiar corridors.  However, when Sherlock headed for the steps to the lower level, John realized that it wasn't Stamford that they were here to see.  Sherlock pushed open the door to one of the rooms near the morgue and John followed, feeling oddly hesitant as his suspicions were confirmed.

A young Beta woman was bent over one of the corpses laid out on the table, intently studying the body as she deftly sketched something on the pad she held.  She glanced up at the sound of the door opening and a genuine wide smile lit up her rather ordinary features.  John was a bit surprised by this as few people seemed genuinely pleased to see Sherlock.

"Sherlock!  You're back!" she cried out, then blushed.  "Of course you're back.  You wouldn't be here if you weren't."  Her blush intensified.  "How - how was the honeymoon?"

"Tedious, for the most part, although there were a few cases of significance."  Sherlock glanced beyond her to the corpse.  "Anything of interest there?"

"What?" She glanced over her shoulder at the corpse, as if she had forgotten it was there.  "Oh.  No.  Well, the discolouration of the skin indicates an unusual throttling pattern but - "  She halted and, if possible, blushed even more.  "Sorry, sorry.  You're not interested in that, are you?"  Her voice trailed off and she looked inquiringly at John.  "Sorry.  I don't think we've been introduced?  Molly Hooper."

"John Watson," John said, stepping forward to clasp her hand in greeting, watching as she juggled her pencil and pad to free a hand.

"My husband," Sherlock added.  "The current Earl of Saughton."

Molly's sketch pad hit the floor and her face went suddenly pale.  John stepped forward to steady her before she fainted as he glared at Sherlock.  "Not good."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up in feigned innocence although the corner of his mouth quirked up.  John ignored him in favour of guiding Miss Hooper to a chair.

"Are you unwell, Miss Hooper?  May I get you something - a glass of water, perhaps?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Molly said faintly, looking up at John with clear embarrassment.  "So you're, um, Lord Saughton now?  You don't look much like your brother."  She immediately looked horrified at her words and began apologizing but John just grinned.

"No, I don't.  James used to call me the runt of the litter.  Don't look much like the others, except for Harriet - my sister, the Earl of Dalmahoy?" he added, not sure if Molly had seen much of the rest of the family.  She nodded.  "I was in the Peninsula when you came to Saughton so you won't have seen me before this."

"Yes, yes, it's clear that you have never met previously," Sherlock said impatiently.   "The more important question is how you came to work at Saughton, in Scotland, when clearly your parents were from Northamptonshire."

Molly's expressive face took on a sad expression.  "My father was the younger son of a gentleman - no title, but they had land.  He married against his family's wishes and they cut him off, so he came to London, to find work as a private secretary.  When they died, I went to the Orphan's Home, and they placed me in service at Saughton.  Well, not _there_ , in Scotland, but _here_.  In London.  The nursery maid had fallen ill or quit or something while the family was here for the Season, so Lady Saughton went to an Agency.  It was only intended to be while they were in London, but Nanny Spencer took a liking to me so I went back with them at the end of the summer."  She looked down at her hands.  "I didn't have many other choices, no skills or money, and I was just fourteen.  And little Jane was a very sweet baby, and not much trouble."

"And while you were in Scotland, you met Lord Saughton's bastard son, Seamus, and he seduced you," Sherlock said bluntly.

Molly didn't look up from her intent stare at her own hands but she nodded.  "He was a year older than me, handsome, and charming - like his Lordship.  His late Lordship, I mean.  Although I'm sure you are charming as well," she added, looking up at John.  "I was...not happy there.  Oh, the house and lands were lovely, but I missed London."

"And my sister-in-law is not the easiest employer," John added.

Molly bit her lip and nodded.  "His Lordship was a true Gentleman, though.  Even after....  He saw that I had a proper future, one that I wanted."

"What happened that day, Molly?" John asked gently.  "No one has ever told me."

Molly sighed.  "I put little Jane to bed in her crib.  She was just one and crawling, not walking yet.   I'm certain that the sides were up and the door closed!" she added hastily, looking at John in appeal.  "It was my half-day, so I went to the Home Farm, to play with the new barn kittens.  Seamus walked me there, before returning to his work.  When I came back..."  She broke off with a little sob.  "Nanny Spencer said it was my fault, that I'd been in such a hurry that I hadn't latched the rail or shut the door properly.  But she should have been in the nursery, with Jane!  Instead she was - " She broke off, biting her lip again and blushing.

"She was in her bed in the adjoining room with Seamus, instead of minding her charge," Sherlock said flatly.

Molly nodded.  "His Lordship had been so proud of him, and planned to train him up to be his estate manager when Mr. Wimmering retired, but Seamus had other ideas.  He used to talk about them, sometimes.   How he'd live in a big house, with a carriage and servants and fine clothes.  He talked about how his mother's family would treat him like he should be treated, not like a servant."

"His mother's people," Sherlock said quickly.  "Did he mention them by name?  Perhaps an aunt or an uncle, or his grandparents?"

Molly shook her head.  "He cursed his grandparents, said they threw off his mother because of his Lordship.  It was his cousins he mentioned, said that they were important in Ireland, but he never said a name.  Only - well, he was an Omega, like Jane, so I couldn't see how he was to become a Lord himself, not unless he married one, and he was a bastard.  Even if his Lordship acknowledged him, gave him his name."  She hesitated again and then said, "I thought I saw him.  Seamus.  Here in London, just after the new year."

"Where?" Sherlock demanded.

"In the City.  It - he looked - I couldn't be certain, but I thought it was him."  Molly bit her lip as she stared up at Sherlock, much like a pet looking for praise for being clever.

John glanced at Sherlock, seeing him frown over this new knowledge, then turned back to Molly.  She looked forlorn and on the edge of tears, and his heart went out to her.  He picked her sketch pad up from the floor and glanced at the drawings, surprised by the skill and accuracy of the anatomical renderings. 

"This is quite good," he said, handing the pad back to her.  He recalled their visit with his old professor at Edinburgh and added, "Dr. Stewart said that you studied in Italy for a few years?  He was quite proud of your work."

Molly brightened at that as she accepted the pad back, gently brushing away some dirt that had gotten on the page from the floor.  "That was very kind of him," she said softly.

"Molly, is there anything that you need, or want?" John said impulsively.  "I feel that my family has treated you shabbily."

"Oh, no!" she said quickly.  "His Lordship - your brother - was very kind.  I  - I'm doing something I love," she said, gesturing at the room around them.  "It probably seems odd..."

John smiled.  "I'm a surgeon so no, I think it makes perfect sense."  He paused and then, in an effort to divert to a safer topic, said, "So you and Sherlock are friends?"

"Oh!" She looked startled and said, hastily, "I suppose - he's interested when I find unusual anatomical features on the corpses.  For his Work.  And murders, of course."  She paused and then nodded.  "Yes.  We're friends."

"Then I hope that I will be seeing you again, in the future," he said gallantly, bowing slightly to her, relieved by the pleased look on her face and her slight blush. 

Sherlock seemed to have processed the information he needed, for he rolled his eyes and pulled at John's sleeve.  "If you are quite finished flirting with Molly Hooper right in front of me, John, we must be going.  Molly, I believe that you will find that the abnormality in the strangulation pattern is because the murderer is missing the index finger on their right hand, possibly from an accident involving a wood rasp.  If you will inform the Runners that they are looking for a carpenter related to the victim, I believe they will be able to locate their murderer before the day is over."

"Right," Molly said faintly, making notes on the edge of her sketch.  "Thanks.  And, um, congratulations.  On - the marriage."  She hastily turned back to the corpse to hide her blushes. 

John let Sherlock tug him out of the room.  "I wasn't flirting with Miss Hooper," he said to Sherlock's back as he followed him up the stairs.  "I was attempting to soothe her feelings, which you walked all over.  She nearly fainted when you mentioned my title, and who could blame her?  And I don't know if you noticed, but she has a bit of a _tendre_ for you."

"Molly Hooper? Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed as he led the way outside and hailed a cab.  "In any case, not my area."

"So you've said."  They climbed up in the hansom cab and Sherlock gave their address to the driver.  "What now?"

"Do you suppose that Sarah Martin will give us the information regarding the whereabouts of her eldest son?"

John snorted.  "Not bloody likely.  She wouldn't give me a cup of water the one time I saw her, much less the time of day."  He thought for a moment.  "Hamish might, though."

"Excellent.  You write to Hamish Watson and see if you can find out where his brother went or, failing that, who these relatives in Ireland are while we wait for the answers to Lestrade's inquiries.  In the meantime, we have another line of inquiry to pursue."

John frowned slightly, trying to think what that could be.  "We do?"

"Of course.  The elopement of one daughter and the ruin of another?  Even if it took place in Ireland, there will be rumours among the old biddies here, bits of tittle-tattle to be gathered in.  And where better to garner such information but at balls, and assemblies, and card parties!"

Sherlock looked positively gleeful about the prospect of going into Society for the first time since John had met him.  John sighed.  He had the feeling that his new husband was going to cause a flutter among the dovecotes, but at least Sherlock would cease complaining about his presentation at Court. 

Now John just had to hope that Mycroft Holmes didn't hear about it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The floor layouts for 221 Baker Street can be found [ here in Worldbuilding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/4425819). I have used notes on the Sherlockology site, as well as speculations elsewhere, plus Google-Earth images of the filming location on Gower Street (as opposed to the Baker Street museum site). There are some differences from the show location, as noted in the text on the Worldbuilding site and mentioned here and in the previous chapter.


	27. Part III: Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes his debut in Society, amid cases. Also, Harry and her family arrive in London for the Season.

The rest of March was taken up by a few cases as word of Sherlock's return to town leaked out through whatever networks he had established.  There were no crimes requiring Sherlock's assistance near the docks, and the Runners were still reluctant to come to him, but private clients trickled into the downstairs parlor.  Most of the cases were easy to solve and didn't require more than the client's description of the situation, solved by Sherlock as he listened.  One client in particular came to seek his advice about taking a position in a distant household, one that paid remarkably well but required her to cut her hair and wear a certain perfume.  It was clear that there was something about the situation that bothered Sherlock, but it was nothing that he could put his finger on, and in the end the young Beta woman decided to take the position, with the understanding that a single telegram would be enough to summon Sherlock to Miss Hunter's aid.  
  
One case occurred that was out of the ordinary, occupying Sherlock for three days, much to John's relief.  It began on a dull afternoon when Sherlock was lying prostrate on the sitting room sofa, moaning over the lack of cases.  John was perusing the daily papers in the hope of discovering something of interest  when the sound of a carriage drawing up to the door caught his attention.  He went to the window and glanced out to see a young man of about thirty rapidly descend from the carriage and ring their bell.  Sherlock jumped up from the coach and, stepping over the coffee table, joined him at the window, staring out at the man who was pacing back and forth before their home while waiting for the door to be answered.  
  
"A man of science," Sherlock deduced.  "Of devout although non-conformist religious views, with a keen interest in chemistry.  You can tell that by the stains on his hands and the markings on his cuffs."    
  
The man leaned his head back, looking up at the window where they stood, and Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.  
  
"Good lord, it is Faraday!" he said and bounded out of the room.  John followed, bemused, as Sherlock nearly tumbled down the stairs in his haste, beating the housemaid to the door which he flung open.  
  
"Come in, Mr. Faraday!" Sherlock called, holding the door open for the man to enter.  He turned to the maid.  "Tea, and some of Mrs Hudson's biscuits, if you would."  Jane dropped a curtsey in reply and, with a curious look at the gentleman visitor, disappeared into the kitchen.  
  
Sherlock held open the door to the parlour.  "Please make yourself comfortable, Mr Faraday, for the day is chill and a cheerful fire will no doubt be welcome."  
  
"I cannot see how I will ever be comfortable," Faraday said, looking utterly miserable.  "I have betrayed the confidence of the man to whom I owe so much, and destroyed my hopes of a future with the woman I love."  
  
John raised an eyebrow at the hyperbole, surprised that Sherlock didn't remark on it, but persuaded the distraught scientist to take a seat on the sofa.  He then took his usual place at the table by the window, notebook and pen ready to take notes.  The maid brought in the tea tray and, after pouring out a cup of tea for their client, Sherlock began questioning him.  
  
"Perhaps if you would explain what has occurred," Sherlock said, "I might be able to shed light on the problem."  
  
Faraday took a sip of his tea and sighed deeply.  "If anyone can help me, Lord Sherlock, I have been told that it is you."  He set down his cup and faced Sherlock squarely.  "As you appear to know me, you will also be aware that I am the _protege_ of Sir Humphry Davy and was his assistant for many years."  
  
"I am indeed aware of that," Sherlock replied.  "As it so happens, I am a bit of a scientist myself, and I subscribe to all the scientific journals."  
  
Faraday nodded.  "I  know of your chemistry work, particularly the test for human blood."  He drew in a deep breath.  "You might not know that Sir Humpry has been trying to extract a substance he calls aluminium from aluminous soils, with little success."  
  
Sherlock frowned slightly.  "I am, of course, aware of the work of Paracelsus in this area in the 16th century, as well as the additional research by Andreas Marggraf in the mid-seventeeth century.  I did not know that any significant progress had been made in years."  
  
"There hasn't, until recently," Faraday admitted.  "We have been unable to extract a pure metal as of yet, but Sir Humphry made an attempt in 1808 and he may have made a significant step forward in the last month."  He hesitated and then said, "He has produced a small sample of an aluminium-iron alloy."  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "Indeed?  That is a significant step but I fail to see the problem."  
  
"Vanity," Faraday said despairingly.  "Nothing but vanity, on my part."  
  
"By this am I to understand that you spoke of this discovery to another?"  
  
Faraday nodded.  "I have just recently had word that I will be appointed Assistant Superintendent of the House of the Royal Institution in 1821.  It is enough to allow me to continue my own research, and will allow me to marry Miss Sarah Barnard in June.  Or it would, had I not utterly destroyed my future through my carelessness and boasting."  
  
"What, precisely, has happened?"  
  
"The sample has been stolen," Faraday said bleakly.  "No doubt it is on its way to Hans-Christian Oersted in Copenhagen, or to Friedrich Wohler in Germany.  And this when Sir Humphry is to present a paper on it to the Royal Institution next week.  Without proof,  he will be a laughing-stock, and we will both be ruined."  
  
"You suspect someone in particular?" Sherlock asked.  Faraday hesitated and Sherlock said sharply, "I cannot proceed without all the information."  
  
Faraday sighed and provided two names, both of whom had visited him at the laboratory that day, and with whom he'd shared the news.  It was after the second, William Howell, had left that he realized that the sample was missing, although he hadn't thought to look for it earlier.  However, he swore that both men had left their coats outside the lab and neither of the men had anything in their hands when they left, except for the cane that the first visitor, Matthew Michaels, used.  No one else had access to the sample, and there was no other way that it could have disappeared.  
  
Sherlock had a few more questions and then promised his client that they would have news for him shortly.  While John showed Faraday to the door, Sherlock sprinted up the stairs.  By the time John joined him in their sitting room, Sherlock had a half-dozen notes for Billy to deliver.  By the next morning, he'd had answers to all of his inquiries, which satisfied him if the slight smile on his face was an indication.  They interviewed the two suspects in the afternoon.  Michaels was an older man of quiet and serious demeanour, bearing several scars from ill-fated experiments and using a carved wooden cane.  The second, Howell, was younger and brash, sneering openly at their questions and refusing to allow them to look over his premises.  
  
"He's the man," John said decisively as they left the man's rooms empty handed.  "We should go 'round to the Runners and swear out a complaint."  
  
"On the contrary, John.  Howell is innocent of everything except being a fool and a coxcomb."  
  
John stopped on the pavement, staring at Sherlock in disbelief.  "You can't be serious!  Michaels was affable and willing to answer each of our questions."  
  
"Do not mistake an open countenance for innocence, John," Sherlock replied.  "Matthew Michaels is a widower with several small children to support, and has his eyes on a Beta who will not accept him unless his fortunes improve.  In addition, although his passion is chemistry, his skill and originality is lacking, giving him little scope to achieve fame on his own.  What stands in our favour is that he has a conscience, which is why he hasn't sold the item in his possession."  He frowned slightly.  "The question remaining is where it has been hidden."  
  
That question was answered the following day.  Sherlock called the three parties involved to Baker Street and, rather to John's surprise, both suspects appeared.  It appeared to his critical eyes that the cocky young Howell was worried about something, and John was certain that he would be revealed as the culprit, right up until the moment when Sherlock removed the foot of Matthew Michaels' cane to reveal a secret chamber, where the sample ingot was hidden.  
  
Michaels burst into tears and confessed that he had acted in a moment of weakness, and that he had immediately known he had committed a foul act but was too weak to confess.  Faraday was so relieved to have the ingot restored that he was willing to keep the Law out of the matter, and even to write Michaels a referral to a decent post - although away from London and further temptation.  
  
Before the party broke up, however, Sherlock revealed that Howell might not have been a thief but was most definitely a villain.  He had been falsifying his scientific data for years.  This was something that Faraday could not forgive, and Howell left Baker street with his reputation in tatters.  Faraday, meanwhile, was so pleased with the results of Sherlock's investigation that he promised a tour of the Royal Institution for both Sherlock and Archie.  
  
That evening, after John had finished writing up the case notes, he sat staring into the fire for a long time.  Sherlock nudged his shoulder and, when John looked up, handed him a glass of whiskey.  
  
"You are thinking deep thoughts this evening," Sherlock said.  "I have called your name twice."  
  
John apologised and admitted that his thoughts had been elsewhere.  "I have been approached by a friend of Mike Stamford, a publisher.  He is putting together a new subscription magazine and he wants adventure stories for it.  He has asked me to provide one or two pieces for the first edition."  
  
"About your time in the Peninsula?" Sherlock asked.  
  
John shook his head.  "About Major Sholto.  He says that the public is avid to read about interesting people, and about exciting events, but they are tired of the war."  
  
"And you are uncomfortable with the thought."  
  
"Yes.  The Major is a very private person, and he has chosen to retire from the world.  It's not my place to write about him."  
  
"But you _do_ wish to contribute something to the publication."  
  
John hesitated, then nodded.  "I had thought about writing up our cases.  This last one in particular would make an interesting tale."  
  
"Some of our clients might object as much as Major Sholto to the revelation of their foibles."  
  
"I would, of course, disguise their names and some of the incriminating details."  
  
"In that case, I would have no objections," Sherlock said.  "I do hope that you intend to curb your tendency toward the hyperbole you exhibit in your journals."  
  
"Chance would be a fine thing," John said with a laugh, not promising anything.  "I had thought to call it 'The Singular Case of the Aluminium in the Crutch'," he added.  Sherlock groaned and collapsed on the sofa, covering his face with his arm.  John laughed again and, with a sense of anticipation, he pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began writing.  
  
********  
  
At the beginning of April, John and Sherlock were at hand to welcome Harry and her family to London.  John had engaged his business man to locate a suitable house for the Earl of Dalmahoy to rent for the season, and he had found a house  in Half Moon Street, agreeably close to Green Park and a little over a mile from Baker Street.  A few days earlier the wagon and carriage bearing their goods and servants had arrived to make sure all was in readiness for the arrival of the Earl and her family.  
  
At last the large travelling carriage pulled up in front of the house on Half-Moon Street, disgorging Harry, Clara, their two children, the nanny, and Clara's top-lofty dresser.  John did not envy his sister that trip, particularly as Georgie was nearly bursting at the seams from suppressed energy.  He and Sherlock swept the two younger members of the party off for ices and a matinee, to give their harassed parents and nanny a respite.  When they returned them to their parental abode, Harry and Clara had regained enough of their composure to invite them in for tea.  
  
Clara was full of news from home and gossip about the new London Season.  "Lady Barnes came for a morning visit just before we left, and she told me that Mrs. Morstan has brought her daughter to London for the Season - and about time, too!  The girl is lovely but nearly an ape-leader at her age!  And it appears that she has _taken,_ for her she has invitations to dozens of parties already, even this early in the season.  I am sure that we will see her at parties, and she is to be presented at Court after Easter.  Such a relief for her mother if she is well-established.  Although I will say that Mrs Morstan is somewhat at fault, marrying as she did to disoblige her family.  The daughter of an Earl, throwing herself away on a common soldier!"  
  
John tried not to clench his jaw, aware that both Sherlock and Harry were watching him.  He made some sort of response, deftly turning the subject to the Dowager Countess who was journeying down after Easter in her own well-appointed barouche, and the arrival of the promised cards for Almack's.  Clara was more than willing to be diverted, as she had been quite surprised that the greatest stickler among the patronesses of that establishment had taken such a fancy to John and Sherlock.    
  
"There is someone who won't be able to get into Almack's for all his ingratiating ways," Clara added.  "And wasn't Janet livid with Mama when she refused to intervene on Colonel Moran's behalf!"  
  
John started at that name although he managed to say, "Wasn't Colonel Moran in London last year?"  
  
"Oh yes!  Such a splendid looking man!  But, sad to say, he cut quite the wrong dash and set up the backs of most of the old tabbies of the Ton.  A gambler, you see," she explained to John.  "And a bit of a loose screw."  She coloured up as she said that, applying her fan to cool the colour of her cheeks as she went to see about the tea.  
  
Once Clara had left the room, Harry said, "I didn't like to say this while Clara was in the room, but I didn't like his friendship with James and Janet above half.  Led James off the straight and into some gaming hells," she added and looked over at John.  "I would imagine you had a number of his gaming debts to settle, among all the rest."  
  
"Some," John agreed.  
  
"There's something a bit off about Moran," Harry added.  "About the whole family, in point of fact.  They say that his sister died in a mad house a dozen years ago, and there was some scandal about his grandmother.  His father was a diplomat - Prime Minister of Persia, I think - but after he returned home, he went into seclusion.  No one's seen him in London for years,  despite him being a particular friend of the King."  
  
"This scandal with the grandmother," Sherlock said.  "What was it about?"  
  
Harry shrugged.  "No idea.  You should ask Clara's mother when she comes into town.  She knows all the gossip, and has friends among the Irish nobility.  The top-fliers of the Ton tend to turn up their noses at non-English peerages, and it might be no more than that."  
  
Clara returned with the maid and the tea tray and conversation turned into more general channels until it was time for John and Sherlock to take their leave.  As they slowly strolled the mile between Half-Moon Street and home, arm-in-arm, Sherlock gave John a sideways look.  
  
"You've met Colonel Moran," he said with certainty.  
  
John nodded.  "The day before your brother approached me.  He came to my hotel about a large gambling debt that James had occurred."  
  
"How large?"  
  
John hesitated, not because he thought it wasn't the Omega's business, but because of the implications.  "Forty thousand pounds."  
  
Sherlock stopped abruptly on the pavement, and John pulled him toward the inner side of it, out of the way of other pedestrians.  "Forty thousand pounds," Sherlock repeated.  "Are you certain?"  
  
John nodded grimly.  "He presented James's vowels to my man of business.  My brother was known to gamble for high stakes, but he usually came about.  I suppose he ran out of time, dying as he did."  
  
Sherlock frowned at that but said nothing more for a few minutes, continuing their stroll home.  "John," he finally said.  "It is possible that your brother's death was not accidental."  
  
"There have been rumours about that.  He was an excellent sportsman, no matter what else one might say about him.  To have accidentally shot himself.... And his favourite son, his heir, had just died days before the incident.  I suppose they didn't return a verdict of suicide to allow Janet the comfort of a Christian burial."  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth then abruptly shut it, frowning in thought.    
  
"What?" John asked.  "Do you think there is something more?"  
  
"I do not know," Sherlock said slowly.  "I must have more data.  When we return to Scotland in the fall, I will make further inquiries."  He made a distasteful face as he added, "We may have to talk with Janet."  
  
John groaned.  "Must we?"  
  
"I am afraid that I see no other choice.  We will also need to speak with the gardener's wife, the former Sarah Murphy, to see what we can learn about that other matter."  
  
"Surely they aren't related?"  
  
"I don't know.  Until we learn more about this Irish business, it is impossible to see what connection there might be between your brother and our murderer.  It seems too great a coincidence that your brother had a liaison with a Murphy as well as a social connection with the heir of an Irish peerage, and then suffered a fatal accident.  And I don't believe in coincidences."  
  
John said nothing more but he felt a cold knot in his stomach at the thought that his brother's death might be part of a larger plot.  And he determined to avenge his brother if he had been murdered.  
  
**********

A few days after the arrival in London of the Earl of Dalmahoy's party, Mycroft Holmes threw a party at Russell Square so that the entire family and a few select friends could meet before Sherlock's presentation at Court, as many of them would not be in attendance there.  Clara curled her lip at the unfashionable address but her eyes widened at the size of the house and the surprising elegance of its décor.  Still, she was clearly uncomfortable with her surroundings, choosing to converse with her few acquaintances and ignoring the more unusual of the guests.  Major Sholto had been invited, as well as Mike Stamford, Lestrade, and John McFarlane.  However, John was delighted with the presence of his friends and pleased that Mycroft had thought to invite them.  Harry enjoyed the mix of guests as her easy-going nature made her accepting of nearly everyone, and the children were clearly delighted to be invited to such a grown-up occasion.  
  
Sherlock and Archie disappeared into his old lab shortly after their arrival, and John could only hope that they didn't blow up or set fire to anything.  At least, not anything that Clara would notice.  He and Sherlock had already had a discussion about the appropriateness of showing Archie crime-scene sketches which he sincerely hoped that his husband remembered.    
  
Georgia had heard about the armour in the dining room from John and was prepared to be amused by the oddities of the house, and she wasn't disappointed.  She took in the unusual decorations with wide eyes, but her favourite room was the library with its collection of odd trinkets from foreign places, as well as a variety of books and maps.  It was there that John found her, pouring over one of the maps with Mycroft, talking about politics and pending government policies with every appearance of enthusiasm.  In fact, by the time they sat down to dinner, she and Mycroft were on the way to becoming fast friends.  When John quizzed Georgia later she told him that Mycroft treated her as if she had valid opinions and was not just another brainless Alpha aristocrat.  For his part, Mycroft said that the Viscountess Ratho was refreshingly intelligent and well-informed, despite her youth and lack of extended education, and that he would not be loathe to further the acquaintance.    
  
As for the rest of the party, Sholto's nature these days was inclined to be retiring, although he and Lestrade struck up a relatively easy conversation at the dining table.  Mike, however, had yet to remain a stranger to anyone he met and he soon set the Countess of Dalmahoy, his dinner partner, at ease.  The meal set before them was well-presented and delicious, and not too extravagant considering the company.  
  
All-in-all, John decided that the evening had been a success.  He hoped that it augured well for Sherlock's Court presentation.  
  
***********

If John had been worried that his new husband's common upbringing might have been reflected in his husband's choice of attire for the Drawing-rooms, Sherlock's appearance would have reassured him.  Truth to tell, though, John hadn't even spared a thought in that direction.  As it was, he thought that Sherlock looked splendid in his plum-coloured coat and knee-breeches, with a snowy-white waistcoat shot with silver thread.  Sherlock's hair had been freshly cut in the style he preferred, with curls artfully arranged over his forehead, and his cravat was so intricately arranged that John was filled with envy.    
  
By contrast, he thought his black coat, white waist-coat, and black knee-breeches would look rather plain alongside Sherlock, but the point of the evening was to present Sherlock. However, the appreciative look that Sherlock gave him assured him that he wouldn't come off too shabby.  
  
"I have something for you," John said as Sherlock joined him in front of the fireplace.  He picked up the box sitting on the table which had just come back from the shop and removed the pocket-watch inside.  "This is a family heirloom of sorts.  It came from my grandfather to my father, to James, to his heir, and then to me.  Now I want you to have it."  John placed the watch in Sherlock's hand adding, "I've had it cleaned and serviced, and a new fob attached."  
  
Sherlock looked at the watch with a peculiar expression on his face.  "You should keep this until you have an heir."  
  
"I want you to have it," John insisted.  "If you were a woman, I'd give you a necklace or earrings to mark this occasion, but I doubt that pearls or diamond drops would suit you," he added with a grin.  "Besides, I have a watch that my father gave me when I came to London, and i prefer to carry that."  
  
"Very well.  Thank you," Sherlock said, carefully placing the watch in his pocket and attaching the fob.  He looked up at John.  "I will endeavour not to embarrass you this evening."  
  
Feeling the need to reassure him, John took Sherlock's hand in his and squeezed it.   "I have no doubt that you will outshine all the others at Court."  
  
Mycroft had loaned them his carriage for the occasion, and the ride to St. James Palace was accomplished in silence.  John had never actually been to Court himself and he was resigned to an evening of tedium although, thankfully, there would be no dancing tonight.  He was also glad that Sherlock wasn't a débutante, and that they hadn't been required to join the legions of young men and women who would be presented later in the month.  Tonight, there were only a few dozen spouses and heirs to be presented to the King. 

Their carriage was waved forward and they descended, following a footman to the St. James Gallery where a queue was forming according to precedence.  As John's earldom was Scottish and only two hundred and fifty years old, they were somewhere near the middle of the line, above the Viscounts and Barons still waiting in their chilly carriages.    Finally, the queue began moving along the gallery towards the Drawing-rooms, and as they waited for an elderly Marquess escorting his newly-presented Alpha son to lead the way, John glanced back toward where the Barons were being formed up.  He caught sight of an unpleasantly familiar face and tugged on Sherlock's sleeve to catch his attention.  
  
Sherlock turned, scowling at the abuse his new coat was being subjected to, but John hushed him quickly as he said, "Moran is here, with the group just now entering the gallery."  
  
Sherlock turned his head quickly, scanning the new arrivals.  "The ginger-haired man, about thirty-five, with the younger dark-haired man wearing a Weston suit on his arm?"  John nodded in confirmation.  "That must be the new husband, then.  Curious."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Moran's new husband is only a few years younger than me, and is reputed to have inherited a minor Irish title.  Why is he just now being presented at court?"  
  
John shrugged.  "Perhaps he wasn't the original heir, or has never come to England. Or he never intended to go about in Court society.   I lived in London for two years while attending medical school and was never presented at Court.  And some don't fit the criteria until they marry.  You have to hold a peerage or have a sponsor who has been presented at Court." John didn't care much about such things but his mother had been a stickler for protocol and he'd had it drilled into him at her knee.  
  
Sherlock said nothing more and, as the line had begun processing in earnest, the matter was dropped for the moment.  Finally, it was their turn to be presented to the King, and John handed their card to the Lord Chamberlain.  
  
"The Right Honourable Earl of Saughton, and his Consort, the Viscount Saughton."  
  
John led Sherlock to the throne where they both bowed low and kissed His Majesty's hand.  King George was no longer the handsome Prince Florizel whom ladies of the late Countess's set had sighed dreamily over, but he had a charm that persisted still.  Even his harshest critics had to admit that his public manners were exquisite.  To John he expressed sympathy at the loss of a brother, something the King was only too familiar with, as well as admiration for his service during the late wars.  His manner was neither too stiff nor too familiar, and his reminiscences about James were both fond and genuine.  
  
King George then turned to Sherlock saying, "And this is our amateur detective, then?  Pleased to meet you - demmed pleased!  Received an advance copy of the Strand magazine just yesterday - ripping good adventures of yours, couldn't put it down till I'd finished.  I particularly liked the one about the aluminium in the crutch - ripping good tale, what?"  He turned back to John.  "You should write up more of them, Saughton!  Vastly more amusing than half the tripe that gets printed, eh?"  
  
It was clear that the King wouldn't mind chatting longer about Sherlock's cases but there were others to be presented, so John and Sherlock made their final bows and backed away from the Throne, then joined the rest of the throng milling about the room.  Several of the lords and ladies in attendance approached John, claiming friendship with his father or brother and asking to be introduced to John's new husband.  John was happy to comply in most cases, although he managed to avoid introductions to a few of the King's less desirable friends.  For his part, Sherlock took in everything with his quick, inquisitive glances, and John couldn't wait to hear his deductions later.  It was the only thing that made the tedious evening bearable.    
  
"Lord Saughton!" called out an older man whom John recognized as Charles Jenkinson, one of James's closest friends and half-brother to the Prime Minister.  He shook John's hand, saying, "I heard that you've succeeded to James's seat in Parliament as a representative for Scotland - do you intend to take it up?  Oh! I beg your pardon!" he said, bowing to Sherlock.  "May I be presented to your husband, Saughton?"  
  
John made the introductions, replying in the affirmative to Jenkinson's question.  
  
"Then you must let me find you a sponsor," Jenkinson said.  "Start out on the right foot, as it were."  
  
John hesitated, then said, "I am not entirely sure that I'll be following in my brother's footsteps in that area."  
  
Jenkinson stared at John, aghast.  "You don't mean to say that you intend to sit on the Opposition bench!  You can't have thought it through!"  
  
"I have not yet decided," John demurred.  "I promise that I will consider all options thoroughly."  
  
Jenkinson shook his head, as if in disbelief, then bowed to Sherlock as he took his farewell.  
  
Once he was out of earshot, Sherlock said quietly to John, "But you have already considered and made your choice.  You spoke about the matter quite firmly last week."  
  
"And the middle of the King's Drawing Room is not the place to state those views," John returned, just as quietly.  "Particularly as his own opinions have swayed in the other direction.  Remember when we spoke about the benefits of discretion?"  
  
Sherlock snorted and John couldn't help grinning at the inelegant sound.  Even dressed to the nines and in the middle of the resplendent crowd, Sherlock managed to be himself, which cheered John considerably.  He couldn't wait to hear who among the glittering nobility were having illicit affairs or committing petty crimes, and was about to suggest that they make their way out when the King's Equerry approached them.   One of the King's sisters had requested an introduction, and as John had just noticed that Colonel Moran was making his way toward them, he was more than happy to comply.  Following in the equerry's wake, they crossed the room to where the Royal party was gathered.  
  
Princess Mary was delighted to make their acquaintance as her brother had shared his copy of the Strand with her.  At forty-five, she still retained the pretty looks of her youth, and seemed to be content in her recent marriage to a distant cousin, also a Beta.  While not a brilliant conversationalist, she was affable and interested in the more personal and romantic aspects of the adventures as John had recorded them (and he gave Sherlock a speaking look about that).  This discussion led to talk of other recent crimes, and then Court gossip, and so John and Sherlock were finally able to slip away.  
  
"I think that went tolerably well," John said as they were in the carriage on the way back to Baker Street.  
  
"You didn't wish to meet Colonel Moran," Sherlock said.  "In fact, you went out of your way to avoid him."    
  
John said nothing, as it was true and he couldn't explain why he wanted to avoid the man.  It wasn't the embarrassment of having had to hand over a fortune to settle a gambling debt - after all, the debt had not been his and the transaction had been handled by Mycroft's lawyer.  It was the feeling that he had met the man before, under circumstances that he had forgotten but which didn't reflect well on Moran.  He decided that he would try once more to look through his war journals to see what he could recall.  
  
In the meantime, he turned the conversation to the company they had just left, inviting Sherlock to describe their varied histories.  It was a successful ploy, for Sherlock loved to display his cleverness to John, and he began to rattle off several scandalous liaisons and a few humorous discoveries.  Several of his deductions were enough to send John into whoops of laughter, which gratified Sherlock greatly.  
  
Mycroft, hearing about the whole evening on the following day when he called at Baker Street (but not Sherlock's private deductions), was deeply gratified as well.  Not only had Sherlock been successfully launched into Polite Society with an entrée into every Court event, but he had been summoned to Her Royal Highness's circle and no doubt had been seen to converse cordially with her.  Everyone in attendance would be wondering who Sherlock was and would be certain to invite him (and John) to their parties.  As he left Baker Street, Mycroft reflected that he would have little to regret in choosing John Watson to be his brother-in-law.    
  
"A Duke couldn't have done better by Sherlock," he said to his lawyer later that day as he made one or two amendments to the agreements that bound Saughton to his family.  "It was a lucky day that brought that particular young man into our orbit."

If he could have seen into another drawing room across town, where a different type of discussion was taking place, he might not have thought it as lucky, but that was a matter for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to [History of the Metal](http://www.aluminiumleader.com/en/facts/history/) for the information on aluminium (or aluminum as we Yanks call it), although I have altered it a bit for this story. Also, a biography on Faraday yielded information on his career, as well as his piety and his modesty (he twice refused to become President of the Royal Society), upon which I based his appearance in this story. Which, since aluminium wasn't widely used until ACDs time and after, required some cogitation. The names of the suspects comes from John's blog on the BBC site, from his write-up of a case with a similar name.


	28. Part III: Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock becomes a fixture in Society as John takes his first steps into the world of politics. And a new player in the game makes his introduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's journal entry with the story about Colonel Moran can be found in [Watson's War, Chapter 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325806/chapters/2932465)
> 
> Sherlock's morning visit can be found in the separate story, [A Civil Agreement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2775011)

  
Mycroft's predictions proved true, and within a fortnight, several dozen visiting cards had been left at Baker Street.  The Saughtons had been "home" to only a few of their visitors, either from interest or expediency, but so far no one had been accorded the invitation to dine.  Sherlock had sorted through the cards personally, as John had little interest, and he noted that one of the cards was from General Morstan, but neither his daughter-in-law or granddaughter had accompanied him and John didn't appear to have returned the visit.  
  
The  Saughtons were invited to a dizzying array of events, ranging from Venetian breakfasts to post-theatre suppers, and from select card parties to grand balls.  If they had so desired, they could have partaken in at least three separate events nearly every day.  As that idea filled both John and Sherlock with horror rather than delight, they carefully screened the invitations, accepting no more than one event in a day and three or less in a week.  Private dinner parties from the more interesting or important members of Ton were accepted.  Débutante balls were declined.  Large crushes where they would not be missed among the throng were also rejected.  Smaller parties and dances, particularly ones where their growing number of acquaintances would be in attendance, were generally accepted.  
  
One exception to their "no-crush" decision was Lady Nassington's annual party.  She was a high stickler among the elite, a notable Whig hostess for her late husband, and had stood as godmother to one of John's sisters.  John had always considered her a member of the extended family, although one of the most terrifying ones, and agreed that they must attend.  When Harry was told that John and Sherlock were attending, she groaned and made a face but nodded, adding that there was no point in putting the old biddy in a huff.  
  
John wore his wedding suit, as did Sherlock, since they were more comfortable than the old fashioned Court dress.  They shared a carriage with Harry and Clara, arriving a fashionable half-hour after the start of the party.  Lady Nassington was still holding the receiving line and she greeted both Harry and John with caustic but roughly affectionate criticisms.  Clara was given a cheek to kiss and a hand to press, as Lady Nassington was quite fond of her mother, and then she turned to Sherlock.  He made a precisely correct bow to her and then stood tall without a blush as she looked him over frankly.  
  
"Legs like a stork, but at least you don't pad them," she said critically.  "Good choice in tailor - not the high crack of fashion, but the style suits you.  You have enough sense not to cram rings and fobs all over you, although that cravat makes you look like a dandy.  That the Watson watch you're carrying?" she demanded.  
  
"Yes, my lady," he replied.  
  
"Good.  Nicely done, John - for once."  She took one more look over Sherlock and said, "Better turned out than I thought you'd be, although I don't approve of this business of getting yourself written up in some two-penny magazine, but at least you have a brain.  You'll do."  She turned back to John.  "Mind that you bring him to sit with me at supper.  Can't stand the jibble-jabble of most of the people here - I expect your husband will at least provide intelligent conversation."  
  
John acknowledged this with a nod and she waved them off, turning to the next victims in line.  John breathed a sigh of relief, giving his arm to Sherlock to escort him into the main room.  
  
Harry leaned closer to him, murmuring in his ear, "Bad luck, that!  Don't know as I could swallow a morsel with her glaring at me the whole time and making me wonder if I have crumbs in my cravat!"  
  
"Thanks ever so much," John said drily.    
  
Harry laughed wickedly and then, following the tug on her sleeve by Clara, headed towards the large ballroom where they could see dozens of couples moving through the steps of a Country dance.  John glanced over to see Sherlock eyeing the dancers wistfully.  
  
"I won't mind if you wish to dance," he said.  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "Later, perhaps.  I would like to get a feel for the company first."  
  
Relieved for the reprieve, John allowed Sherlock to direct their path and decide with whom to speak.  Many of the people they had met previously at Court, some John had heard about from the society pages, and there were also a number from Clara's party.  And nearly all of the people they met were full of astonishment and praise for the stories of their adventures that had appeared in the now-published Strand magazine.  While the Alphas generally liked the thrilling mystery of the aluminium in the crutch, the Omegas preferred the more romantic story of the Dancing Men, which John had carefully disguised to protect the Cubitts.  The Betas were divided in preferences, although most spoke very feelingly of the Hilton's love for "Elsie".  Universal was the curiosity about Sherlock's methods for discerning the truth.  
  
Sherlock bore it with better grace than John had expected, although his private remarks to John after each encounter were both scathing and amusing.  John couldn't recall enjoying a Society party more and, just like after their Court visit, he couldn't wait to hear Sherlock's summary of the event.  
  
The evening was not without its blights, however.  Early in the evening, John caught sight of Mary as she left the dance floor, fanning herself and laughing with apparent delight at something her current swain, a young soldier in a scarlet coat, had said.  Her eyes caught John's, then flicked to where Sherlock stood next to him before returning to John with something like hurt or betrayal in her eyes.  Then she firmed her mouth and, linking her arm with her partner, fairly dragged him over to where John stood.  
  
"Lord Saughton!" she said brightly.  "What a delight to see you here tonight!  I believe that you have more than once remarked that parties such as this are a 'crashing boor'."  
  
John stiffened slightly but Sherlock said, his voice languid, "Ah, that is because John has some intelligence and a highly developed sense of danger."  
  
The young man escorting Mary, hastily introduced as Captain Hill, gave a bark of laughter.  "Poppycock!  Who ever heard of anything dangerous happening at a ball?"  
  
Sherlock gave him a smile that was all teeth.  "Precisely."  
  
"But you aren't dancing, Lord Sherlock!" Mary said hastily.  "Lord Saughton, you mustn't neglect your husband so!  Someone might carry him off - to dance, of course."  
  
"Unlikely," Sherlock said.    
  
"Then again, dancing was never Lord Saughton's strong point, was it, John?" she said, turning to smirk at him. "Perhaps the danger is in tripping over his own feet."  
  
"I say!" Captain Hill protested at what was clearly a barb, and he gave John an apologetic look.  
  
"Too true, I'm afraid," John said mildly.  "I won't deter you from the pleasures of the ballroom any longer, Miss Morstan."  He bowed slightly in farewell and turned away from the ballroom, only then allowing his lips to tighten.    
  
Sherlock was silent at his side for a moment, for which John was grateful.  His leg was starting to ache and he wondered if it might be better for him to find a chair among the chaperones and allow Sherlock to dance.  
  
"Don't be absurd, John," Sherlock said quietly, his hand coming to rest lightly on John's arm.  He said nothing more, but for some reason, John was cheered by the feeling of comradery of the gesture.  
  
*******************

The second irritation of the evening was caused by the persistence of some of the more politically-minded attendees.   As they were walking from one salon to another, they passed the open door of the card room and John heard a voice calling out to him.    
  
"Good to see you again, Lord Saughton," Charles Jenkinson said, joining them.  "Lord Sherlock," he added with a nod to John's husband.  "Have you had time enough to think about your position, Saughton?"  
  
John frowned, glancing around them, at the card players behind them, and at the glittering throng of dancers.  "This is perhaps not the time or place - "  
  
"Nonsense!" Jenkinson said.  "I am sure that your husband can spare you for a few minutes.  Perhaps a dancing partner can be found for him?"  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the dismissal implicit in those words.  "I will wait on my husband."  
  
Jenkinson turned to John, drawing him back into the card room.  John was relieved to see that it was only partially filled at this early hour, and a quick glance reassured him that there were adherents to both of the major political parties present.  
  
"So, Saughton, have you come to your senses?" Jenkinson asked with an edge of laughter to his voice that made John feel like a child being humoured.  
  
John nodded.  "I have, and I stick to my original thoughts on the subject.  I will be throwing my lot in with the Loyal Opposition."  
  
"Are you mad, man?  The Tory party is our only hope for maintaining our property and our rights!" Jenkinson snapped, drawing the attention of several of the card players who joined them.  
  
John raised his chin in a gesture that would have been immediately recognizable to his sister as 'John digging in his damned stubborn heels'.  "Possibly.  Nevertheless, I intend to stand by my choice."  
  
"But - dear boy!" Henry Bathhurst protested, giving up his place at the card table to join him.  "Their treatment of Wellington!  This dashed liberal slant of theirs!  First, Alpha females taking seats in the House, and next they will be demanding rights for Omegas!"  
  
"Precisely why I am leaning that way, sir," John said evenly.  "You forget: my sister is the Earl of Dalmahoy, and until ten years ago couldn't take her seat in the Scottish House.  She has yet to be appointed to one of the Scottish representative posts, although I daresay she knows more about politics than I."    
  
He paused to draw in a breath, equally aware of Sherlock's stillness next to him and that he had become the focus of attention in the card room.  "And why shouldn't Omegas have rights?" he said boldly, ignoring a gasp from the group.  "Several people here have commented on the cleverness of my husband in solving those cases that I wrote up for the Strand.  Doesn't that prove that Omegas are just as intelligent and capable as Alphas and Betas?  Why shouldn't they have the right to determine their own futures,  and to vote on laws that affect them most of all?"

Silence fell for a moment, and then the sound of a pair of hands clapping broke the spell.  Jenkinson and his friends hastily moved away as John turned to see his unexpected supporter.  He recognized the young man who had been standing beside Colonel Moran in the gallery at Court.  
  
"That was quite impressive," the young man said, stepping forward.  "Although perhaps a _teensy_ bit ill-timed, if you wish to succeed in politics."  
  
"I don't," John said shortly.  "I'm afraid we haven't been introduced."  He glanced around for Moran.  
  
"James, Lord Moriarty," the young man said cheerfully, extending his hand, adding in a slightly sing-song tone, " _Hi-ii_!"  As John hesitated to take his hand, Moriarty made a little moue of distaste.  "Surely such a proponent of Omega Rights isn't going to insist on a proper introduction by an Alpha?"  
  
"No, of course not," John said, clasping Moriarty's hand briefly.  "Pleased to meet you.  And this is my husband, Viscount Saughton."  
  
"Ever so pleased to meet you," Moriarty said to Sherlock as he clasped his hand.  "Everyone has been agog with the story of your detective adventures, simply _agog_.  Rather nauseating in a way.  I mean, such _boring_ little crimes.  Not like, say, _murder_."  
  
Sherlock was studying Moriarty's face intently.  "I have worked with the Thames River Police on a few murder cases."  
  
"Well, that's what you should be writing up, Johnny-boy!" Moriarty said, turning back to John.  "Ooops!  A bit too familiar, wasn't that?  But then again, we Omegas have _such_ difficulty minding our manners.  Best to keep us locked up at home, minding our needle and filling the cribs," he added in a fake-whisper to John and Sherlock.  "I'm sure that you've felt that way on occasion?" he said to John with a wink.  
  
"On the contrary," Sherlock interrupted smoothly.  "John has always practised what he espouses to others."  
  
"What a devoted couple!" Moriarty said with a smile so full of teeth that it reminded John of the reptiles he'd seen during his brief stay in Africa.  "Quite a model to the rest of us."

John was about to make their excuses and escape the room when he was aware of another person joining them. 

"Now, whatever has my James been saying to cause such a look, Lord Saughton?" Moran asked, smiling at him in that genial way that made one feel pleased to be acknowledged by him.  For some reason, that sparked a fragment of a memory and made John angry.  "May I convey our best wishes on your recent nuptials?  And may I also present my new husband, James?  He is also the Baron Moriarty in his own stead as none of the Alpha heirs remain."  
  
John professed his delight at meeting both of them, reluctantly introduced Sherlock, then ignored the snort from Sherlock as he added, "My sister-in-law would wish to be remembered to you, Colonel, and also to extend her good wishes."  
  
"Dear Janet," Moran said with a smile.  "Such an excellent hostess."  Outside in the ballroom, the musicians struck up a waltz and Moran turned to Sherlock.  "May I have this dance, Lord Sherlock?" he asked with a slight bow.  
  
"Oh, _do_!" Moriarty said to Sherlock, his voice showing his amusement.  "And perhaps your dear husband will partner with me - or maybe Miss Morstan, who is absolutely _longing_ for a dance with him, else why does she _stare so_?  Or should we switch 'round and scandalize everyone?"  
  
Sherlock didn't even glance in the direction of the ballroom but he placed his hand on John's hastily proffered arm.  "I'm afraid that I don't waltz with anyone but John, and he is not dancing this evening."  
  
John didn't need the hard pinch to his arm to keep silent, nor did he glance in Mary's direction, although he felt the weight of her stare on him.  He just nodded, the devoted Alpha spouse to his husband's will.  
  
"What a pity," Moran said, but there was no time for more because Harry and Clara were suddenly there.

"Sherlock, there you are!" Harry said with the air of one administering a scold.  "You promised me the quadrille, which is after this waltz, so we shall just have time to grab a cup of punch before forming up.  John, will you look to my wife?"  
  
"Gladly," John replied, offering his arm to Clara who was looking becomingly flushed from dancing.  "Perhaps you will take a turn about the room with me, Lady Dalmahoy?  I fear that my leg is not up to dancing this evening."  
  
Clara declared herself relieved to have a respite from the dancing and  took his arm.  With a nod to both Moran and his husband, they began a slow stroll around the perimeter of the ballroom towards the conservatory.  
  
"What a very convenient injury that must be," Clara murmured with apparent seriousness.  "It will not permit you to dance tonight, but it allowed you to run all over London yesterday in pursuit of that jewel thief."  
  
John glanced at Clara and saw that her eyes were twinkling at him in amusement.  He grinned back.  "Very convenient.  It might, in point of fact, be completely recovered tomorrow."  
  
"You are shameless, John Watson," Clara scolded complacently, smiling in a way that lit up her face with genuine mirth, not her usual polite smiles.  For the first time, John saw what Harriet had seen back when they were both young girls.  He felt a painful wrench, wondering where it had all gone wrong for them.  Did the hot blood of youth always fade away to polite and tepid tolerance?  What was it that caused love to sometimes fade or even turn to hate, while at other times it deepened into something rich and precious?  And what would have become of him and Mary, if Fate had not conspired against them? They had shared a fondness for military life, and for the exotic beauty of India.  They had walked together, and he had kissed her twice, gently and respectfully, on the day of their betrothal and then when she had sailed for England.  Would their love have become richer through shared interests, or would he have eventually found himself staring across the breakfast table at a wife he neither knew nor loved?  
  
Unbidden, the image of Sherlock sitting on the other side of the coffee pot that morning arose in his mind.  Sherlock had been talking quite animatedly about techniques for preserving body parts for long-term study, with Mrs Hudson scolding him about unsanitary practices and uttering dire threats if his experiments violated her pantry.  The memory of it made him smile, and his eyes automatically sought out his husband, finding him standing with a cluster of other dancers as the quadrille formed.    
  
And then his view was blocked abruptly.  He blinked and his eyes refocused on Mary, who had moved deliberately to stand between him and Sherlock.  She was staring at him, a slight frown on her face.  Then Clara recaptured his attention with a suggestion that they seek refreshment.  He assented, and when he glanced back at Mary, she had her back to him and was chatting quite animatedly with Captain Hill.  
  
John turned back to Clara, about to apologize for his inattention, but found that Clara's thoughts were elsewhere as well, as she stared across the ballroom with a frown on her face.    
  
"I don't like that man." she said, and John turned to see that she was looking at Colonel Moran and Lord Moriarty, who had joined another set for the dance.    
  
"Which one - Moran or Moriarty?"  
  
"Both, actually.  There is something disturbing about Lord Moriarty, like watching a snake about to strike its prey.  But it's Colonel Moran that I meant."  She hesitated.  "I know Harry spoke more about him the other day, and that she didn't want to speak before me as she thinks that I like the man, as Janet does.  But I don't.  He was up to something when he befriended James, and it wasn't just encouraging him to gamble.  I thought he was trying to seduce Janet for awhile, although he never seemed to seek her company in that way." 

She looked over at them again, then back at John.  "I've met his father, you know, here in London.  Sir Augustus Moran.  Father had him as a guest often, before Moran went out as Minister to Persia.  Then Father died, and Mother never particularly cared for political hosting, not like Lady Nassington.  I heard that Sir Augustus returned to Ireland and went into seclusion."  
  
"Did you ever hear why?"  
  
She shook her head.  "There was something whispered about a breakdown, or maybe that was his daughter.  Mother would know more about it.  She knows all the Irish nobility from when Father was posted in Ireland, when I was younger."  She looked at John with a frown.  "Why?"  
  
"It's for one of Sherlock's cases," John admitted, reluctantly.  He knew that Clara didn't approve of Sherlock's "hobby" and waited for her to say something derisive that would destroy the fragile peace between them.  
  
Instead, Clara said, hesitantly, "Someone said that you were espousing Omega rights to the Prime Minister's brother.  Is that true?"  John admitted that it was and she said, "Do you really think that it is possible?  That Omegas could own property or earn wages?  That they could - could divorce without proof of abandonment?"  
  
Startled, John turned to her.  "Clara, do you want a divorce from Harry?"  
  
Clara bit her lip and turned away, and John followed her into the conservatory which appeared empty at the moment.  "I think that Harry might want one," she said lowly, once they were inside.  "Only she would never want to ruin my reputation or take the children from me."  
  
"You can't possibly believe that Harry wants a divorce," John said in disbelief.  "She loves you."  
  
Clara smiled sadly.  "She did, but I can't give her any more children."  
  
"Bollocks to that," John said roundly.  "Harry loves you, not your womb."    
  
Clara went scarlet, uttering a scandalised "John!" at his words.  
  
"Don't be missish, Clara - it doesn't suit you.  Harry thinks that she's failed you, not the other way 'round.  Lord, don't you two talk to each other?"  
  
"Not for years," Clara admitted bleakly.  "Not about anything important."  
  
"Well, you should!" John said shortly.  
  
"So should you!" Clara shot back.  "Does _he_ know about Mary Morstan?  And do you ever intend to share a heat?" At his startled look she rolled her eyes and said, "Servants talk, John - especially ones with no loyalty to the current master of the house.  And Janet encourages them to talk."  
  
John's lip tightened.  "She should encourage them to mind their own business.  And as to - that... it's up to Sherlock. Plenty of time to think about an heir once we're more comfortable with each other."  
  
"Comfortable, John?"  
  
"We didn't marry for love, Clara," John said pointedly.  Clara's lips tightened at that and John sighed.  "Just - talk to Harry, will you?  And I'll think about what you said as well."  
  
Clara nodded but it was clear that the momentary comradery was over, as were the exchange of confidences.  John escorted her back to Harry as the quadrille ended, just in time to collect Sherlock for supper.  
  
Despite his fears, supper was actually not too painful.  Lady Nassington was a forthright woman who had little tolerance for what she called the "namby-pamby wishy-washiness" of the current generation.  Sherlock's lack of filter regarding his deductions amused instead of offending her, and soon their heads were bent together as she demanded more of his deductions about her guests.  John had the feeling that he should nip this in the bud but he was quite frankly terrified of the old lady.  Besides, Sherlock was enjoying himself mightily, and from the looks that he was getting from the other guests, they would be even more sought after for Ton events after this.  
  
Once they were released from the supper table, John escorted Sherlock back to the ballroom where he partnered him through a few of the sedate dances that inevitably followed supper.  After that, he thankfully handed Sherlock off to other partners for the sprightly country dances that followed.  Sherlock did not lack for partners, although he refused all offers for the waltzes in between, choosing to stand beside John and make caustic criticisms of those dancing instead.    
  
Towards the end of the evening, while John stood chatting with a few of his acquaintances, he was approached by a man that he recognized as the second Earl Grey.  He was a handsome man nearing fifty, his receding hair still retaining its dark colour, his expression open and intelligent.  After clasping hands in greeting and inquiring about his brother, Henry, who had served in the Peninsula with John, a brief silence fell between the two men.  
  
"You will forgive my approaching you on such an occasion," Lord Grey said after a moment.  "However, There was talk in the card room about your political views that interested me.  I was told that you spoke quite eloquently on the subject of rights for Omegas."  
  
John made a wry face.  "I doubt that 'eloquent' was the term that was used."  
  
"On the contrary," Grey said.  "Viscount Althorp was the man whom I spoke with, and he was quite impressed with your stance.  You may not be aware, as you were in service and out of the country, but he was devoted to his late wife and she was an Omega."  He leaned closer to say quietly, "There were issues regarding her having children; after three years, her half-brother threatened to dissolve the marriage and give her to another unless they bred.  You can see that Althorp is very interested in self-determination for Omegas."  
  
"I understand," John said, recalling Mycroft's warning in that area.  "I didn't think anyone did that sort of thing anymore.*"  
  
Grey shrugged slightly.  "The Reverend Acklom had some rather old-fashioned religious views on the matter.  And I think he hoped to have some influence over the future Earl Spencer.  In the end, the Viscountess died in childbirth, so it was for naught.  But we were speaking about your views.  How do you feel about universal suffrage?"  
  
"By 'universal', do you include Betas and Omegas of both sexes?" John asked.  
  
Grey nodded.  "We may not be able to achieve all that we want at once, but certainly the Betas who work in our shops and houses should be allowed to vote for their representation."  
  
"And Omegas?" John asked, his interest stirred.  "You would advocate the vote for them?"  
  
"It will be more difficult to achieve, but I believe that we can start taking steps in that direction.  By allowing Omegas access to education, and the right to work and keep their own wages, we allow them to form their own opinions."  
  
"They already have their own opinions," John pointed out.  "They have just not been allowed to voice them."  
  
"Well put," Grey said, clapping John on the shoulder.  "I believe that your views coincide with those of us in the Opposition who desire a more liberal form of government.  I would be pleased to sponsor you when you take your seat."  
  
"Thank you, my lord," John said, surprised and pleased.  "I would be honoured to be seated among your adherents."  He paused.  "As long as I am not required to make any speeches.  I'm afraid I don't have a talent for that."  
  
Grey gave him an amused look.  "Just speak from your heart, Saughton.  I think that you will find it is more than eloquent.  I will see you on the 11th."  With a nod of farewell, he strode off into the crowd, leaving John to relive the whole astonishing conversation before Sherlock rejoined him and they took their leave of the party.

Harry and Clara were not yet ready to leave so John arranged to send the carriage back for them.  Once they were seated in the carriage, Sherlock swiftly assessed John and raised an eyebrow. 

"You have received news that has surprised and yet pleased you.  Since I doubt they would have interrupted a ball to inform you of my brother's death, I imagine it is something else."  
  
John gave him an amused look.  "You don't really think that your brother's death would please me, do you?"  
  
"It would please _me_ , but no, I doubt you would find it satisfying.  After all, you didn't spend twenty-five years with him.  Although you do know that it isn't considered polite to giggle over the idea of an in-law's death."   Sherlock waited for John's amusement to subside.  "I could possibly deduce the answer, but I will let you tell me."  As John gave him a surprised look, Sherlock added, "It is possible that your sister implied that a true marriage involves the give and take of information."  
  
John would have been pleased - except for the fact that his husband wasn't meeting his eyes.  "Sherlock."  
  
"Yes, John?"  
  
"Don't listen to Harry."  
  
Sherlock's head jerked up.  "But - "  
  
"She has the best intentions, but if she knew what she was talking about, her own marriage wouldn't be such a mess.  Besides, I like listening to your deductions.  I always have."  
  
Sherlock blinked and then he smiled.  "Of course you do."  He looked away from John, out the carriage window, and John could see him draw in a deep breath before he abruptly swung back around.  
  
"You have had good news, something imparted by a guest at the assembly.  The majority there had little on their mind but gossip or flirtation, but you do not have the demeanour of one who would had conducted an assignation.  In addition, you gave your word to Mycroft and you are a man of your word.  Therefore, it was not of a romantic nature."  
  
"Hang on; you think I'd carry out a illicit assignation under your nose!"  
  
"Less indignation, more cooperation."  Sherlock looked over John again.  "You don't dance, you don't gossip - "  
  
"I don't carry on assignations while my husband is less than twenty feet away!"  
  
" - you no longer gamble, so what else would interest you?  Nothing, so you didn't seek it out.  They sought you, but not upon our arrival, which would be logical, so it must have come about from something that occurred earlier.  So what occurred earlier this evening?  Supper?  No, Lady Nassington could snap her fingers to summon you at any time.  Moran?  Since you have been doing your best to avoid him, I doubt that a second encounter would please you.  No, it was the encounter with that insufferable bigot in the card room that was the trigger."  
  
"Brilliant," John murmured, his attention fixed on Sherlock as he spun out his deductions.  
  
Sherlock faltered slightly, then visibly puffed up and rubbed his hands together.  "So word has gone 'round about your loyalties and has come to the attention of someone within the Opposing political party."  
  
John nodded.  "The Whigs, yes.  Apparently, the leading Whig member of the House of Commons has spoken to Earl Grey, one of the most powerful Whigs in the House of Lords.  He will sponsor me when I take my seat at the next session, on the 11th."  
  
Sherlock frowned slightly.  "But that's not what has pleased you."  
  
"No, it isn't."  John smiled at Sherlock's puzzled face.  "Sherlock, I'm not a politician.  I'm not interested in becoming one."  
  
"Then - "  
  
"They plan on expanding rights for those who are not Alphas," John explained.  "Voting rights for Betas.  Property and education rights for Omegas.  And one day, Omegas will be able to make their own decisions, vote, and sit in Parliament if they so choose."  
  
"Much as I would like to believe that fantasy, I have my doubts," Sherlock said with a sniff.   
  
John reached out to cup Sherlock's cheek, saying earnestly, "Even if it takes decades to fully come about, anything that might allow you to control your own destiny, _anything_ , is a step in the right direction."

They had arrived at Baker Street and John descended from the carriage, using his key to unlock the door.  When he glanced back at the carriage, Sherlock was staring at him, wide-eyed, his hand touching the cheek that John had cradled.

"Coming?" John asked, holding open the door.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and, without a word, descended from the carriage and swept into the house. 

 ***********

The next morning, after sleeping in as compensation for their late night, John made a visit to his barber and the tobacco shop mid-morning.  Sherlock had arisen after he left but was gone by the time he returned, and John took advantage of the quiet to balance the household books.  After that, he started writing up notes on some of their cases, looking back over his notes to see which ones might be converted to stories for the Strand, should they want more.  That reminded him of his war journals, and he was paging through them when Sherlock whirled into the sitting room, throwing off his heavy coat and tossing it over a chair.

"You were out early," John remarked, knowing that Sherlock rarely stirred from Baker Street before noon unless a case was involved.  "Was it a client?"

"No, just morning calls," Sherlock said airily. "Are you looking over your notes for another story?"

John looked at him incredulously. "Morning calls. You never make morning calls."

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought I should try it, but it is boring so I shan't be doing it again." He smiled as John laughed and went over to the desk to look over John's shoulder. "Those aren't your case notes."

"No, these are my journals from when I was in the Peninsula." As Sherlock picked up one of the volumes, John said, "I had the feeling that I knew Colonel Moran from somewhere, and I found it."  He handed Sherlock the journal he was holding, open to one of the pages.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "You are certain that you want to share these thoughts with me?"

"What, the boring ramblings of a naive young surgeon who found himself in the middle of battle?" John asked with a grin.  "There's nothing salacious in there."

Sherlock nodded and read the entry for the summer and fall of 1813,  He frowned as he read about Colonel Moran's actions in the Pyrenees, particularly as they were involved with Sholto, a captain in charge of the medical unit at the time.  "I don't understand.  How can he be accepted in Society with this in his past?"

"I doubt that this story is well known," John replied.  "Moran certainly wouldn't mention it, nor would the members of his regiment.  Major Sholto lives a retiring life, even if he were the type to gossip, which he isn't."

"You could spread it," Sherlock pointed out.  "Which makes it peculiar that he would approach you publicly."

"I was an assistant surgeon in the background; I doubt that he remembers me.  Besides, I would never do that.  It's not the act of a gentleman."

Sherlock snorted and handed back the journal without another word.  But later, when John came down from his room, he found Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, reading one of the journals.

**********

A few days later, John returned from running errands to find the sitting room in a state of upheaval.  The coffee table had been turned upside down and rested atop the sofa.  Their comfortable chairs had been pushed into the dining area.  The general flotsam of their daily lives had been stacked precariously on his desk.  Even the rug had been rolled up and shoved against the sofa legs.  
  
Sherlock, who generally wore shirt sleeves under a dressing gown when they were not entertaining company, strolled out of his laboratory, fully suited as if ready to rush off on a case.    
  
"What's all this?" John asked, indicating the room.  "Are we expecting the cleaners?"  
  
" _You_ are going to learn how to waltz."  
  
John scowled.  "I already know how to waltz."  
  
"In theory, yes.  In practice - "  Sherlock shuddered.  "Your movements could make small children cry and stampede livestock."  
  
"They do _not_ \- "  There was no help for it.  Sherlock's dry tone of voice coupled with that vivid imagery made John burst into giggles.  "Very well," he conceded finally.  "I waltz horribly.  I fail to see the problem."  
  
"The problem is that _I_ enjoy waltzing.  However, due to your friend, Colonel Moran, I have hoist myself on my own petard.  I cannot waltz in public unless it is with you, and you waltz so abominably that I refuse to be seen twirling about in your arms.  If you could even _manage_ a twirl."  
  
"Moran is not my friend."  
  
"Immaterial.  He dislikes you nearly as much as you dislike him, and now we know why.  The question is, what is at the root of Moriarty's animosity?" 

Sherlock seemed about to charge off in pursuit of that train of thought, but to John's disappointment, he shook it off and returned to his project.  He clapped his hands together once as he surveyed the area.    
  
"Since I cannot play and dance at the same time, I will hum a tune.  If you improve enough to go about in public, we might attend a masked ball for the practice."  Sherlock took his place in the middle of the floor and held out an imperious hand.  "It would improve matters considerably if you came closer."  
  
"Flattery will get you anything," John retorted, but he took his place across from Sherlock.  
  
"You grasp one of my hands while you place the other on my waist," Sherlock began instructing.  
  
"I do know this part," John said, but he obediently took Sherlock's hand in his.    
  
"Not like that," Sherlock said impatiently.  "You act as if you are holding a dead fish."  
  
"Keep insulting me and you will remain a wallflower," John pointed out.  Sherlock's lips tightened but he responded with a sharp nod.  In return, John adjusted his hold.

"I assume that you know the basic steps."

"Of  course."

"Show me."

John took a deep breath, counted in his head as Sherlock hummed, then stepped forward - right onto Sherlock's foot.

"Ow!"

"You're supposed to step back!"

"You are supposed to guide me!"

John looked blank and Sherlock sighed.  "Let us switch roles.  I will lead and you follow."

Sherlock took John's hand and waist and, after counting off the beat, gently pushed John backwards as he stepped forward.  John had expected it to feel odd but it seemed as natural as breathing to allow Sherlock to guide him as they glided around the room.  Sherlock's hand on his waist easily indicated which direction he was to move in, and the firm clasp of his hand held John steady.  When they had traversed the room several times, Sherlock paused.

"Does it begin to make sense?" he asked.

"When you lead, yes.  I'm sure to make a mare's nest of it, though."

"Confidence, John!"

"I'm _confident_ that I'll make mull of it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held out his hand demandingly.  With reluctance, John assumed the lead position, clasping Sherlock firmly.  He counted off the beat and then stepped forward as he pushed at Sherlock to step back.  It wasn't nearly as fluid as Sherlock's lead, and wasn't pretty by any means, but John managed to circle the room without stepping on Sherlock's toes or knocking him into the furniture.  By the time they had made a dozen circuits, his steps had smoothed out a little and he was guiding Sherlock without making a wreck of his coat in the process.

"Excellent progress," Sherlock said finally, stopping John just as his leg was beginning to protest the unusual exercise.  "We will do this every afternoon until you can appear in public, unless there is a case."

John groaned.  And that night, as he said his prayers, he barely refrained for begging for a nice serial murder.

However, by the end of the first week, John was able to perform the steps without counting out loud or staring at his feet.  He was beginning to comprehend the tempo in the tunes that Sherlock hummed as they twirled about the room, sometimes aided by Mrs Hudson's off-key descant.  Finally, two weeks after they started, Sherlock produced a little music box while John rolled back the carpet.  John eyed it curiously.

"My mother's," Sherlock explained.  "It is from Italy, and was a wedding present from my father.  Mycroft is not musical, so she passed it on to me."

He wound the key on the delicate little box and then opened the lid.  A lovely waltz began to play, one that John recognized as a tune that Sherlock had hummed during their practice.  Sherlock set the box on the mantle and turned to John.

"Now, show me what you have learned," he demanded.

John gave him a brief bow and held out his right hand invitingly.  Sherlock accepted his hand and John pulled him in, resting his other hand lightly on Sherlock's waist.  He listened to the music for a moment, in order to catch the rhythm, then stepped confidently forward.  Sherlock moved smoothly with him, guided by the hand on his waist.  Sherlock fit easily in his arms, even with the disparity in their height, and moved with such innate grace that John found himself paying more attention to him and less to the count in his head.   They circled the room several times, in silence except for the delicate waltz from the little music box, and it was magical.  There was no outside world, only the sound of the music and their footsteps and the soft exhale of their breath.  Sherlock was warm and lithe, a welcome weight in his arms as they circled the floor.  Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his, not mocking or criticising or even deducting for the moment, but just looking at him.  John couldn't look away, didn't wish to look away, matching his breathing as well as his steps to Sherlock's.  He  felt as if they had always existed at this point in time, in each other's arms, dancing to a lilting little tune.

The ending of the music and the sudden applause from Mrs Hudson burst apart the magical spell as if it was a fragile soap bubble.  John flushed and stepped back from Sherlock, dropping his hand and ducking his head. 

"Beautiful!  Just beautiful!" Mrs Hudson said enthusiastically.  "Reminded me of the way I used to dance with my second, no, third patron.   Now _he_ was a romantic - an Italian Count! - used to bring me grapes from his hot-house, even in the winter!"

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him before he looked away, clearing his throat.  "Yes, well, that was a significant improvement.  I believe we can risk attendance at the masked dance at Covent Garden tomorrow night.  If you manage not to crash into any of the other attendees, not damage either of us, then I believe that we can risk waltzing at the next ball we attend."

John murmured something in agreement before fleeing to his chamber to try to recover his composure.  And that night, as he dreamed, for the first time it was not a small and fragrant woman's body he held, but that of a tall, slender man whose eyes saw into his soul.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Nassington is courtesy of "A Civil Contract" by Georgette Heyer, which this is a fusion with. I liked her character a lot.


	29. Part III: Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock resumes his cases in London, under not-so-friendly eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of the dialogue during the second case is courtesy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, literary agent for Doctor John Watson. No infringement is intended.

On the heels of John's published tales, although heavily edited, they found that the number of cases presented for Sherlock's perusal increased in both number and quality.  There were, of course, those Ton members who brought trifling mysteries to their doorstep, merely for the cachet of being able to tell their friends that Sherlock Holmes had solved their little domestic difficulty.  For all of their sakes, Wiggins took on a new role as confidential secretary, to screen the cases that came by way of visitors and letters, and to weed out the thrill-seekers from the serious.    
  
For the most part, Sherlock was able to solve the cases brought before him without leaving his chair.  However, there were a few cases brought his way that required a more direct examination, and an even smaller number into which Sherlock threw himself for the mere curiosity of the matter.  John recorded each case carefully, although some were of such a delicate nature that they would have to be suppressed for decades because of the uproar should the stories be known.  Still, there were a few cases which - with a little blurring of the details - he could submit for publication to the Strand.  He found a new sense of purpose in making these records, in addition to the thrill of adventure connected to the cases.  
  
The first of these cases, oddly enough, was brought to them by Mycroft.  It involved one of the interpreters in the Home Office, a Beta by the name of Paul Melas.  He had been hired by an English man to interpret in a business matter involving a Greek national, only to stumble upon a mystery involving a man held prisoner.  This prisoner was being tortured and starved by a pair of villains, abjured to sign some legal papers which he refused to do.  Mr. Melas was concerned for the prisoner's safety, and that of a beautiful young woman who he'd seen briefly in the house, whom the prisoner had called "Sophy", and so had brought the matter to Mycroft.  Mycroft, in turn, consulted his brother.    
  
Sherlock's inquiries turned up a young Greek heiress, an Omega, who had apparently eloped from her school with a handsome young Alpha, Harold Latimer.  Her brother had come to England to find her and had disappeared.  Sherlock believed that the brother was Latimer's prisoner, and the young man was being tortured to consent to his sister's marriage and to turn over her fortune, and tracked down their location.  However, the resolution of the case was not nearly as satisfactory as it could have been.   A territorial dispute between the Bow Street Runners, the local constabulary, and the sheriff of the county delayed their access to the house, and by the time they arrived, the brother was dead from poison.  They were in time to save Melas, however, and to learn that the villains had fled towards the coast with the young lady.  However, Sherlock's unexpected knowledge of channel tides and Mycroft's expertise with the various road-ways south resulted in their capture and the rescue of the young Omega.  She had been restored to her guardians at the school and, although grieving for her brother, was reported to be recovering well.  The last news they had from Mycroft was that Paul Melas had been visiting her, to lift her spirits, and that romance seemed to be in the air.

* * *

The next case, although missing the murderers, concerned villainy of a different sort.  The case, which involved less murderous intentions, was no less intriguing and was brought to them by a Miss Wilson.  On a Saturday morning shortly after the Nassington party, John was summoned to the drawing room by Sherlock to meet a new client.  When he entered, he saw that the client's chair was occupied by a plain-looking middle-aged woman with the most brilliant shade of red hair that he had ever seen, although much of it was hidden under a hideous poke bonnet.  She was dressed in a plain grey merino walking dress, but over her shoulders was wrapped a silk shawl dyed in such vibrant colours that it hurt John's eyes.   
  
"Ah, John, there you are!" Sherlock called out as he entered the room.  "May I introduce Miss Jezebel Wilson, of Coburn Square, who has come to consult with us on a singular mystery?  Miss Wilson, this is my husband, the Earl of Saughton, who assists me in my cases, as well as recording them.  You have no doubt read his accounts in the Strand magazine, which brought you here."  
  
Miss Wilson nodded, holding out her hand for him to clasp.  "Lord Saughton!  Such thrilling accounts!  I was quite stirred!"  She coloured slightly at that, and John could not say that the blush made her rather pasty skin any more attractive.  
  
"Thank you, Miss Wilson," he replied, releasing her hand to take his usual seat at the table.  "You don't mind if I record the facts of the case?" he asked as he opened his journal.

Her colour deepened.  "I'd be honoured."  
  
"If you would repeat your story for Lord Saughton's benefit," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his chest.  John could see that his keen eyes were taking in every detail of their client, from the top of her fiery hair to the tips of her serviceable shoes.  "And perhaps start with the pertinent details about your situation?"  
  
"Miss Jezebel Wilson," John said, jotting that in his journal.  "Have I got that right?"  
  
"It - it's an unusual name, I know," she began haltingly.  "I should perhaps start by saying that Papa was a member of a very conservative religious congregation.  He and Mother were Betas, as were most of their people, so when I came along - an Omega - well, Papa said it was a Sign that I was marked for sin, so I was very strictly raised.  I was schooled at home, of course.  Papa taught me to read my Bible and copy out the weekly catechism, and Mother taught me household management.  She died when I was ten, and I took on much of the household duties, with the help of my Gran.  Papa wouldn't allow anyone outside our church to come courting, and I never took a fancy to the few who dared ask leave of Papa, but that was all right because Papa and Jonah - that's my brother - needed looking after."  
  
She paused and looked over at John.  "I'm rambling - I'm sorry - Papa said it was one of my worst faults - "  
  
"Not in the least," John said, seeking to put her at ease.  
  
"These details may assist in the unravelling of this mystery," Sherlock said, with that air of careless kindness he extended on occasion to female clients.    
  
Miss Wilson relaxed at that and some of the colour left her cheeks.  "Father died last summer, leaving his estate, except for the shop, to Jonah.  The shop he left to me, with Jonah and our pastor as my trustees.  I should explain that he allowed Gran and Mother to run a charity shop, selling second hand clothing and furnishings to the less fortunate in our community.  The shop is open for a few hours every afternoon, except Sunday and Wednesday, so it's not difficult to manage except - well - "  
  
"You're not allowed to work in the shop, as an Omega." Sherlock finished her sentence, a flat tone to his voice.  
  
Miss Wilson nodded.  "My trustees set about finding a clerk for the shop, but it was difficult to secure someone who was willing to work those few hours for the low wages we can offer, and who has a Good Character," she explained.  "My rooms are above the shop, you see, and many men will try to take liberties..."  She flushed again.  
  
"We understand," John said hastily.  "But they did manage to find someone willing to take the position?"  
  
She nodded.  Yes, a Mr. Vincent Spaulding, who came with excellent references and was quite willing to accept the terms."  
  
"And he has been an able employee?"  
  
"So Jonah says, although I have very little to do with him, of course.  I provide him tea mid-afternoon, and a cold supper when the shop closes, and that is the extent of our dealings together.  Jonah collects the money from the till once a week and sees that Mr. Spaulding is paid."  
  
"And Mr. Spaulding's temperament?  Nothing to complain about there?"  
  
"Oh no!  He is quite affable to the customers, and polite to me.  He is endeavouring to learn carpentry as well.  Some of the furnishings donated to the shop are in need of a little repair, and we have a workroom in the cellar for that purpose.  He spends the mornings working down there, although I must admit that he is a slow learner for he's had little to show for it."  She added, hastily, "Not that I mean to criticise!  I am sure that it is difficult work."  
  
"And how long has Mr. Spaulding been working at the shop?"  
  
"A little over three months."  
  
Sherlock considered this for a moment.  "And when did this rather dull and settled state of affairs change?"  
  
"Two months ago," Miss Wilson said.  "I took Mr. Spaulding his supper just after he'd put up the shutters eight weeks ago, and he sat down with the evening paper, as he was wont to do.  When I came to clear the dishes, he was very excited and insisted that I read one of the advertisements.  I don't read the newspaper - Papa thought it wasn't appropriate for me to do so - but he was so set on it that I just cast my eyes over the advert he pointed to."  
  
"And what was unusual about this notice?"  
  
"It was from an organization that called itself the Red Headed League," she replied.  "A charitable organization funded by a bequest from a Mr. Ezekiah Hopkins, to provide assistance to Omegas in need.  They were advertising for a receptionist, to take in applications, and specifically wanted a female Omega, between the ages of thirty and forty, with natural red hair.  I was sceptical, of course, but they offered to pay two guineas a week for a few hours work in the mornings.  Mr. Spaulding insisted that I apply, and the very next morning he escorted me to the offices of the Red Headed League.  The gentleman in charge was very affable and said that I was just what they were looking for.  He said that many Omegas were shy about approaching a Beta or Alpha, even when they were destitute, but that a respectable-looking Omega like myself would put them at ease.  As for the stipulation in hair colour, it had been noted by their benefactor that a certain reputation is attached by some to Omegas with red hair, making the social institutions in place less charitable in their dealings with red-haired Omegas.  
  
"As for the responsibilities of the position, they were light.  I was to be in the office between nine and one on Monday through Saturday, to distribute applications to those who came to the office and to collect the completed forms.  These were then placed in Mr. Ross's box, for him to collect when he came to relieve me from my duties.  When there were no clients, I was free to do as I liked, as long as I didn't leave the office.  So I took the position, without asking the opinion of Jonah or the pastor or - or anyone!  You have no idea how bold that was, for me."  
  
Sherlock gave her a tight-lipped smile.  "I have some inclination.  And what occurred after you took this bold step?"  
  
"I don't mind admitting that I had a bad night of it," she confessed.  "I tossed and turned in my bed, wondering if I'd been foolish.  I was more than half-inclined to think it a joke or wild imagining on my part.  Nevertheless, the next morning I dressed and went round to their offices.  Mr. Ross greeted me most politely, showed me to my desk and the forms, and left.  For the next four hours, I remained at my post, dispensing forms to two young persons who came to inquire, although I must admit to some doubt as to naturalness of the colour of hair for one of them.  At one o'clock, Mr. Ross returned and bid me a cordial good-day, sitting down to examine the forms.  So it was all that week, and on Friday, as I was preparing to leave, he placed two gold guineas in my hand."  
  
Miss Wilson paused and looked down at her hands, which were clenched on her lap now.  "It wasn't that I was in need of money, but... Jonah pays for my upkeep, out of the income from Papa's businesses and the income from the shop.  I am truly not in need, but... It is a different matter than _wanting_ something.  This shawl, for instance," she said, touching the garish article with reverent fingers.  "Papa didn't approve of bright colours, nor Jonah.  And it might be wicked of me, but I took the first of those guineas and walked into the first shop I saw and bought this.  It was the first thing that I had ever bought with my own money, freely earned.  Since then, I've bought something frivolous or silly every Friday with one of the guineas and hid the other away."  
  
"And the work?  Has it been as easy as you had thought?"  
  
"Very easy.  I seldom have more than one applicant in a day.  Fortunately, I am accustomed to long, dull hours, and at first I took to thinking Improving Thoughts.  Then I saw that the bookcase contained a set of encyclopaedias, so I began reading from the start of 'A'.  I learned a great many things, so that I almost resented when someone would come into the office seeking assistance.  In this way, eight weeks passed, and I was looking forward to starting on the 'B's when I arrived at the office today.  Imagine my surprise when I found the door locked, with a 'For Let' sign on the door.  
  
"I admit to being dumbfounded, for Mr. Ross said nothing about closing the office when he'd paid my wages the previous day.  I sought out the building manager and he had no notion that the offices had been leased - his records said that they were being painted before being leased again.  So I popped into the tea shop around the corner from the office to sit and think on the matter.  Lying on the table was a copy of the Strand; I read it while I drank my tea, and one of your cases was in it.  After I'd finished reading I thought that it might just be the odd sort of puzzle you'd be interested in, so I took a hansom out here to lay the matter before you."  
  
John had no doubt that someone had been making a May Game of Miss Wilson, and that the whole matter was a prank, possibly even a kind-hearted one since the jokester had been willing to part with sixteen guineas during its course.  He carefully kept his eyes on his journal for he was certain that if he met Sherlock's eyes they would both burst out laughing, and poor Miss Wilson didn't deserve such treatment.  
  
"I see," Sherlock said, with only a slight tremor to his voice.  "There are one of two questions that I would like to ask before I take on the case.  First - was there anything unusual about the applicants for assistance with the League?  Anyone who struck you as odd or wrong or even just a bit peculiar?  Leaving aside the matter of the natural colour of red to their hair."  
  
Miss Wilson thought for a moment and then shook her head.  "Nothing that comes to mind."  
  
"And there were no disturbances at your shop or lodgings during your absence?"  
  
"No, none."  
  
"This Mr. Ross - can you describe him for me?"  
  
"Of course.  He was an average sort of man, younger than I, and with hair even redder than my own."  
  
"No scars, limps, or anything of a peculiar nature?"  
  
"Not that I noticed."  
  
"And Mr. Spaulding, who came so highly recommended - can you describe him as well?"  
  
"Small - shorter than myself, and strongly built.  No hair upon his face, although he has an odd discolouration on his forehead and the lock of hair that falls over it is white."  
  
Sherlock looked considerably interested at this, sitting up in his chair.  "Are his ears pierced?"  
  
"Why, yes!  He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a younger man."  
  
"Hmmm."  Sherlock sank back in his chair, folding his hands together under his chin and appeared to be deep in thought for a moment.  "Your shop - it is open today?"  
  
"Yes, it is, until six."  
  
"And your personal habits?  After you serve Mr. Spalding his cold supper at six, you retire to your rooms?"  
  
She nodded.  "I am seldom awake after eight, as my brother does not approve of wasting candles by staying up much after dark.  Mr. Spaulding locks up the shop when he leaves, about six-thirty."  
  
"Excellent!"  Sherlock exclaiming, coming to his feet and ringing for the maid.  "You may leave this matter with us, Miss Wilson, and I expect that I shall have a conclusion for you by Monday.  In the meantime, I advise that you use the remaining money that you have gained in whatever frivolous fashion you desire.  Good-day!"  
  
Once the maid had shown Miss Wilson out, John felt free to indulge in the fit of laughter that he had been suppressing and, after a moment, Sherlock joined in.  
  
"It is too ridiculous," John said, wiping his streaming eyes with his handkerchief.  "Someone has been playing a joke on Miss Wilson."  
  
"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed.  "But why go to such elaborate measures?"  
  
"Maybe a friend of the family who wished to see her in possession of a few coins but knew she'd be too proud to accept charity?"  
  
"John, you saw that gown and those boots.  Miss Jezebel Wilson has been accustomed to receiving charity all of her life.  It would not likely stick in her craw now."  He shook his head.  "No, there is something else at work here.  I must think."  
  
He headed for the stairs and, after ensuring that the ink was dry on the page, John closed his journal and followed.  Sherlock was standing before the fire, packing his favourite pipe, when John entered their sitting room, and he glanced briefly at his husband.  
  
"It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you don't speak to me for the next hour."  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock  settled in his chair with his knees drawn up to his chin, perched like some rare and unusual bird.  John wouldn't say that he had become accustomed to such behaviour, but he found it oddly endearing to observe so he sat in his chair and opened his journal to read back over his notes.  Absolute quiet, save for the puffs of air from the pipe, filled the room for the next hour, and John was just on the point of nodding off to sleep when Sherlock suddenly sprang from his chair.    
  
"John, have you any plans for the rest of the day?"  
  
"None," John said promptly.  "Save for calling for our luncheon shortly and replying to Wimmering's letter about the spring planting.  Nothing that can't wait.  There is a party tonight that we have accepted - I don't remember whose but the card is on the hall table."  
  
"Then, since the day is fine, would you have any objection to visiting the former premises of the Red Headed League?"  
  
John agreed that such a fine afternoon shouldn't be spent indoors and, conditional upon obtaining luncheon while they were out, he acquiesced to these plans.    
  
They found that the office was indeed to let, and inquiries of the other tenants of the building had turned up the interesting fact that the office had first been occupied only a day before Miss Wilson was hired to manage the desk.  Clearly, a prank directed at Miss Wilson, John decided, but Sherlock now looked thoughtful and decided that they would stroll around to Miss Wilson's shop.    There, instead of entering the shop, Sherlock lingered around the green grocer across the way while keeping an eye on the door to the place.  Before long, a young man in shirt-sleeves came out of the pawn shop and set about sweeping the stoop.  He was non-descript in appearance, except for a shock of white hair which fell across his forehead.  Sherlock watched him intently, although John could not discern anything remarkable about either the young clerk or the shop.    
  
Once the clerk had disappeared back inside, Sherlock quickly made his way across the street to the shop, although he still didn't go inside.  Instead, he walked along the pavement in front of the shop, staring intently at the surface and tapping it with his cane every few feet.  In this way he made his way around the side of the building and down to the next street, which was considerably busier than the street where Miss Wilson's shop stood.  Sherlock walked down the block, passing by a bank, a tobacconist, a newspaper shop, and a busy little pub.  He grabbed a paper from the newshop and, with this in hand, he entered the pub and took a seat at the back, quickly opening the paper after perusing the date and headlines.  Baffled, John procured two mugs of ale from the bar and ordered a steak pie, then followed Sherlock to the back.    
  
"Have you made any headway in this case?" John asked, setting the mugs down on the table as Sherlock folded the newspaper.  
  
"Hmmm?" Sherlock looked lost in thought for a moment before he latched onto one of the mugs and took a restorative sip.  "Excellent notion, John!"  He took another sip and then set it down, looking directly across the table at John with a serious look on his face.  "I have solved it, but there is dangerous work to be done still.  Have you any objection to missing whatever party we were to attend tonight?"  
  
"None whatsoever," John said promptly.    
  
"Capital!  Then with the aid of your revolver and the assistance of a few constables, we shall put an end to this puzzle tonight!"  Sherlock rose and strode purposefully toward the door, while John hastily finished his ale and, mourning the loss of the steak pie, hurried to follow him.    
  
When they arrived home, Sherlock settled at the desk to scrawl out a quick note which he dispatched with Billy the page to a contact with the London City constabulary.  Then he turned back to John.  
  
"You have questions, and we have several hours before we need return to Miss Wilson's shop," Sherlock said, rising from the desk to take his usual chair before the fire, as the waning of the sun brought a chill in the air.  "Or we could work on your dancing.  Although you acquitted yourself well at the masked ball, you need more practice before Almack's, and the Easter holiday has unfortunately postponed more events at Covent Gardens."  
  
"No, that's all right," John said hastily.  "I do have a few questions.  What do you make of this matter, then?"  
  
"I commend to your attention the premises behind the pawnshop and the state of the pavement outside the shop," Sherlock said.  "Also,  the clerk, who is much more clever than his employer."  
  
John frowned, thinking back to the shops they had passed.  "The pub, a news shop, tobacco - the bank!" he said, sitting upright in his chair.  "Miss Wilson's shop shares a back wall with a bank!"  Sherlock looked exceedingly pleased with John's quickness in picking up the clues, which made John feel proud of himself in return.  But then he frowned.  "Sherlock, I didn't see anything unusual about the clerk."  
  
"Nor should you," Sherlock replied.  "His real name is John Clay - I recognize him by the discolouration of his hair and the skin beneath it, the result of an accident involving acid while at university.  He is the grandson of a royal Duke, an Alpha but on the wrong side of the marriage blanket, and has been to Eton and Oxford.  His mother, besides being illegitimate, was an Omega, for which he blames his lack of title, lands, and money.  Therefore, he has turned to other methods of securing wealth, preferably at the expense of other Alphas or Omegas.  He is also a forger, thief and murderer.   Many is the officer of the law who would like to catch him with his hand in the till, as they say, and tonight they shall!"  
  
He rubbed his hands together with delight as he sprang to his feet, then made his way into his workroom before closing the door behind him.   John sighed and called for Mrs Hudson, advising her to put back dinner as there was little hope that Sherlock would eat anything until the case was completed.  Then he made his way up to his bedchamber to get a few hours of sleep so as to be fresh for an all-night vigil, if necessary.    
  
As dark fell, John found himself sitting in the cellar of the Coburn branch of the City Bank, in the company of Constable Peter Jones and Mr. Merryweather, a director from the bank.  They had passed through a serious of formidable gates, and the cellar itself looked quite impenetrable - until Sherlock tapped on the tiles covering the floor.  A hollow sound emanated, which made Mr. Merryweather look startled and more than a little worried.    
  
"Dear me!" he said, looking around at the dozens of crates and boxes that filled the area where they stood.    
  
"Quietly!" Sherlock ordered, holding up his hand.  "The shop is closing and our daring thieves will begin making their way here shortly."  
  
"What is here that they would risk so much for?" John asked, taking a seat on one of the crates.  
  
"Gold," whispered Mr. Merryweather, with a grim little smile.  "We hold much of the gold from the Bank of France, for security, while their bank is being rebuilt. We have had warnings that thefts would be attempted, but thought it safe here in the depths of our edifice.  The crate upon which you sit, Lord Saughton, contains 2,000 gold coins alone."  
  
John looked around at the crates filling the room and mentally calculated the sum.  "A princely amount, and one that might tempt a thief."  
  
"It is due to be returned within the month, although I cannot mention the exact date," Mr. Merryweather added.  
  
"Which is why they have gone to such expense to get Miss Wilson away from the premises for the past eight weeks, to accelerate their plans," Sherlock said.  "Only a thin layer of dirt remains between John Clay and his prize, and he will fight for it.  Best be prepared," he added, turning to John, who pulled out his revolver and lay it on the crate beside him.    
  
Sherlock turned to the constable.  "I trust that you have taken the precautions I mentioned?"  
  
Jones nodded.  "Two constables wait outside the shop's front door.  They won't escape from us that way."  
  
A muffled ringing sound came from beneath them and Sherlock hastily closed the shield on his lantern as everyone hid behind the crates.  They waited in darkness for several long minutes before a crack of light appeared in the cellar floor.  This was followed by a sharp tapping below, a  muffled cursing, and then one of the large stones flipped up and over.  A moment later, a head appeared in the opening, followed by a lantern.  The clerk who John had seen earlier that day pushed himself up through the hole, followed by another young man with bright red hair.  They set down the light and a couple of tools, then turned towards the smallest of the crates.  Constable Jones gave the signal and the four men sprang out of hiding.  The red-haired man, nearest the hole, jumped back into it but Clay was caught by Merryweather and Jones, while John levelled his revolver at the thief.    
  
"Stand down, Clay!" Sherlock ordered.  "You are caught, and constables wait at the shop door for your friend."  
  
"You have been remarkably clever to have caught us," Clay said, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.  "May I know your name?"  
  
"It is Sherlock Holmes-Watson."  
  
Clay nodded.  "I thought as much."  He gave Sherlock a smile full of teeth.  "I will see that you are repaid for this one day, mark my words."  
  
"I doubt that," Constable Jones said, fastening handcuffs around the wrists of his prisoner.  "His Majesty will be entertaining you for a good many years, my lad."  
  
Clay glared at Jones, drawing himself up and sneering.  "Do not touch me with your filthy hands.  You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins."  
  
"So does 'e," Jones said, with a jerk of his head in John's direction.  "Don't see as it gives you the right to break into banks, nor protection from justice."    
  
He pushed the thief ahead of him in the direction of the doorway, where by now a police carriage would be waiting to take away the prisoners.  John followed, his revolver at the ready in case Clay decided to run.  He was aware that Merryweather was proffering thanks to Sherlock as they followed, in between utterances of amazement.  John smiled wryly, certain that Sherlock's fame would spread even more after this.

* * *

 

It was hardly a surprise that their first appearance at Almack's, which occurred a week after the Red Headed League incident was published in the newspapers, caused a stir.  However, John's faint hope that the patronesses would throw them out (as they had Lord Wellington when he had shown up improperly dressed) failed to materialize.  Lady Gwydyr stepped forward to greet them warmly, giving John her cheek to kiss, and then introduced them to the other patronesses.  Sally Jersey was full of questions about the attempted robbery, which had been faithfully reported by the papers as thwarted "with the assistance of Lord Sherlock Holmes" (although Miss Wilson's role in the matter had been hushed up, for her own protection).    
  
When the first waltz was struck up, Lady Gwydyr took the opportunity to turn the conversation away from the lurid crime by smoothly redirecting their attention to the dance floor.  "May I find you a partner, Lord Sherlock?  As I recall, Lord Saughton does not care to waltz."  
  
"On the contrary, Lady Gwydyr," John said, with an apologetic nod of his head to her.  "It would be my privilege to partner Lord Sherlock in a waltz, with your permission."  
  
Lady Gwydyr nodded in approval and, taking his leave of the other patronesses with a bow, John offered his arm to his husband.  Sherlock gave him a quick, assessing look as they moved through the bystanders toward the dance floor.  
  
"Are you ready, John?" he asked, in a quiet voice.  "You did quite well at the masquerade."  
  
"I only stepped on a half-dozen trains and knocked over one vase so, yes, I suppose it was a success."  He found a place and turned to Sherlock, extending his hand.  "Last chance to back out.  Those shoes haven't yet been ruined by me."  
  
Sherlock grinned.  "I prefer to live dangerously," he replied, stepping into John's embrace.  "And if you must trod on someone's train, might I suggest the eldest of the Winthrope girls as a target?  Her gown is hideous and tearing it could only be an improvement."  
  
John burst out laughing and forgot to be nervous as he swept his husband into the whirl of dancers.  They received a few indulgent smiles from the more romantically inclined of the bystanders, and a few scowls from those with less charitable natures.  And from the shadowed corners, more than one wicked-hearted viewer watched, with evil intentions and intricate plans that were slowly being hatched.

 

 


	30. Part III: Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John takes his seat in Parliament, he and Sherlock are approached by Mycroft for their assistance in averting a Royal Scandal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am indebted to [ Ariane DeVere's transcripts ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/26320.html) for some of the dialog used here. The plot is liberally mixed the the ACD canon version, and uses some of the dialog in that story as well.
> 
> I make no claims to know or understand British politics, particularly that of the period, beyond what basic research provided through reference libraries and from watching BBC America.

At the start of May, John took his seat in the House of Lords, sponsored by a friend of Charles Grey.  He was warmly welcomed by other prominent Whigs such as William Grenville and John Russell, although a few of his fellow Scots turned their backs to him.  Not that it really mattered to John; he had little inclination to pursue a political career, and he knew that social friendships were always fickle.  No doubt these same men would come seeking his favour should they need his vote.  
  
As he took his seat along the back bench, however, a voice called out from across the aisle, loud above the general conversation taking place.  
  
"Don't know why Saughton should be allowed a seat here - he'll just be parroting the views of that Omega husband of his."  
  
"Perhaps he's the wife in their marriage," called out another.  
  
"Aye, he'd look fine in his mother's petticoats!" mocked a third.  
  
Into the sudden silence that fell, John looked across the aisle but it was impossible to tell which men had spoken.  There were some whispers and laughs on both sides of the aisle, and more than one person was eyeing him eagerly to gauge his reaction.  And despite his disinclination to participate in political discussions, this was clearly done to humiliate him, or to goad him into back-tracking his already stated views for greater freedoms for Omegas.  Which was where someone had miscalculated.  John hated bullies, and had enough experience with them growing up to know how to stand up to them.  
  
Stand up he did, and he bowed to the collected representatives across the aisle.  "Since my lord husband is more intelligent than all the esteemed members across the aisle combined," John replied, letting his voice carry over the whisperings around him, "then to take his advice could only be seen as an improvement on the general discussion here."  
  
A roar of laughter arose in response to this, most of it from the Opposition side of the room, although a few among the Tory party could be seen hiding smiles behind their hands.  
  
"Fortunately, the Viscount Saughton has little interest in politics, so my esteemed colleagues will have to content themselves with my views instead."  
  
John bowed again, then resumed his seat amid hand-shakes and back-slaps from his fellows as the assembled members were called to order.  He settled in for the duration, joining those on the back bench so that he could watch and listen, although he was so bored that he could barely keep his eyes open and his attention on the (rather pointless, it seemed) debate.  He resolved to keep his attendance at a minimum, when there were to be discussions or votes on subjects he really cared about.  He refused to feel guilty for shirking his duty this way, and instead wistfully wondered if Sherlock was working on a jolly mystery in his absence.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock, it turned out, was not solving mysteries while John was otherwise occupied.  Sherlock was sulking.  Following the heady excitement of the Greek business and the Red-Headed League, he seemed to find every other case presented to him to be dull and pedestrian.  He refused to dress, lying on the sofa in his dressing gown, only moving when he flopped from one side to the other.  John rolled his eyes but left him to it, knowing that something was bound to come along eventually to attract his husband's attention.  What he didn't know was that the case would set into play events that would change all their lives.  
  
The evening was fine as John walked home from Brooks's, the gentlemen's club peculiar to Whigs.  He was in a good mood, having spent the afternoon listening to debates on a series of acts designed to increase suffrage among the working class, as well as extend a few rights to Omegas.  It wasn't nearly enough but it was a start, and when he thought of Omegas like Miss Wilson having to conceal their own earnings, or turn them over to husbands or fathers, he felt rather proud to be a part of the new legislation.  So he had allowed himself to be talked into going to Brooks's for a whiskey and a round of billiards, although he had resolutely refused an invitation to partake in a hand of cards.  Gambling was always a temptation, but after James's spectacular fall in that regard, John would not allow himself to be drawn into it.  So he had made his excuses and, deciding that the evening was too fine to be confined in a carriage, strolled homeward.  
  
He had just turned onto Oxford Street from New Bond when a carriage pulled up a short distance ahead of him.  A man in unfamiliar livery descended, holding the carriage door open in such a way as to block John's path.  John frowned and adjusted his path to go around the man but he put out his arm to stop John.  
  
"Lord Saughton?  My employer wishes the favour of a few words with you."  
  
John paused, looking at the carriage for a moment before looking back at the man blocking his way.  Both were unfamiliar and the brougham carriage bore no livery or seal; no doubt Sherlock would have been able to discern the man's employer as well as his entire history, but all that John could tell was that his employer had money.  The brougham was one of the newest carriages and the pair pulling it must have cost over one hundred guineas each.  It didn't excuse this intrusion, however, and since the incident with Jefferson Hope, he had become very wary of coaches and their drivers.  
  
"Your employer may call at 221 Baker Street in the morning."  
  
"I am afraid that that will not suit my employer," the man replied.  "His business is of paramount importance."  
  
"So is my dinner," John retorted, stepping sideways to go around him.  
  
"I must insist."    
  
He stood implacably in the way.  John was aware that they were drawing curious looks and knew that he had two choices: submit to this unusual abduction, or cause the sort of scene that would cause talk.  Besides, he was intrigued by the man's insistence and confident of his ability to hold his own against an assailant.  So he gave in with good grace, climbing into the carriage.  
  
The carriage turned around and proceeded down Oxford Street, turning onto New Street toward Piccadilly Circus. The man sitting across from John refused to answer any inquiries so John turned his attention towards the passing scenery.  He glanced out the window curiously  as they proceeded down the newly-constructed street, not having had the opportunity to see John Nash's grand plan as it neared completion, and he wondered at their destination.  It was almost anti-climatic when the carriage pulled up at Carlton House.  
  
John descended from the carriage and allowed himself to be escorted into the Regent's - no, the King's - private residence by his silent abductor.  After following the man down hallways and up stairs, at last he was bowed into a lavishly decorated salon and the door closed behind him.  He stood for a moment, looking around curiously and, seeing that this was a small ante-room that led to a much larger salon, walked toward it.  There he found his husband, sitting on an ornate sofa, still wearing his mouse-coloured dressing gown over his shirtsleeves and inexpressibles. 

"Hello, there," John said, grinning at Sherlock.  "I see that you've been abducted as well.  Any idea who's behind this?  Or why we're here?"  
  
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.  "Obvious.  This has all the hallmarks of Mycroft's high-handed interference."  
  
That made sense.  John took a seat at the other end of the sofa and cast an appraising look at his husband.  The boredom that had hung over the man for the past week has disappeared and, although he was scowling, his eyes were bright with anticipation.  John hoped that whatever the reason for their "abduction", it would provide some amusement for a little while.  Then his eyes fell on his husband's feet.  
  
"Sherlock, are you wearing your bedroom slippers?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
John pursed his lips in disapproval as he nodded his head, then the ridiculousness of the whole situation struck him and he burst into giggles.  Sherlock joined him, with his deep rumbling laugh.  
  
"I have the sudden impulse to take a souvenir,"  John admitted, making Sherlock laugh even harder, and when Mycroft walked into the room, their giggling fit intensified.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes.  "Would the two of you be serious?  You are in His Majesty's private residence!  One would think that you could act like adults."  
  
John managed to rein in his inappropriate laughter, although he continued grinning.  "You couldn't just drop by Baker Street?" he asked, gesturing around at their surroundings.  "Or is this meant to impress us?"  
  
" _I_ am not your client," Mycroft replied.  "However, I have given my personal guarantee that you two will be able to handle this matter - discreetly and efficiently.  It might be more convincing if you would put on your boots and coat like a gentleman, Sherlock."  
  
"Who is my client?" Sherlock asked, not displaying the least bit of awe for their surroundings or the hints of their client's identity.  
  
"Guess," Mycroft said shortly.  
  
Sherlock rose from the sofa, drawing his dignity around him with a haughtiness that John thought would make many a Dowager Duchess envious.  "I.  Do not.  Guess."  He turned his back toward Mycroft, striding towards the outer door.  "Come,  John."  
  
"Sherlock, do not make me repeat myself," Mycroft said coldly, Ignoring John who had remained on the couch, sensing Sherlock's actions were not serious but rather a strategic move.  "Put on your clothing and Sit Down."  
  
Sherlock paused, his back still to Mycroft.  "I prefer my cases to be mysterious, not my clients."  
  
Mycroft sighed, signalling his surrender, and from where John sat, he could see Sherlock's triumphant little smile.  "You can consider your client to be the highest in the land.  Will that do?"  
  
In response, Sherlock turned around.  He discarded his dressing gown over the back of a chair and donned the coat lying on the table, adjusted the lapels and swiftly tying an elegant cravat without the benefit of a mirror, which John thought was nothing short of miraculous.  Then he sat back down on the sofa and kicked off his slippers, pulling on his Hessian boots..  
  
The man who had accompanied John reappeared from a side door, scooping up the slippers and dressing gown, and disappearing again.  Immediately afterwards, another servant appeared bearing a large tea tray and followed by a gentleman dressed in the Royal household livery.  Briefly, Mycroft introduced him as Harry Spencer, an Equerry to the King, then settled down behind the teapot.  
  
"I'll play mother, shall I?" Mycroft said smoothly.  
  
"And there you have the story of my childhood," Sherlock said, in a tone of voice only loud enough for John to hear.  He choked back a laugh, knowing that it wouldn't be taken very well by the other two men.  
  
"As you are no doubt aware," Harry the Equerry began once he'd received his teacup, "His Majesty's coronation will be this July."  
  
John gave Sherlock a quick side-ways look, wondering if he did, in fact, remember it, or if it had been deleted from his memory.  Sherlock ignored him.  
  
"Unfortunately, there is a Person who plans to disrupt the occasion and cause a scandal, if she can.  Her name is Irene Adler, an Omega with a notorious reputation."    
  
Sherlock looked bored.  "I assume that there are letters of an incriminating nature?"  
  
"So we understand," Harry replied.  
  
"Then you have a problem, but not one I'm interested in solving."  Sherlock started to rise but Mycroft made a sharp gesture and, with a sigh, Sherlock sat back down.  
  
"You don't understand," Harry said, leaning forward slightly in his urgency.  "The type of scandal she could cause would be unprecedented."  
  
"And what is it, precisely, that you fear she could do?  It is not as if His Majesty has a spotless reputation."  
  
"It is not His Majesty who wrote the letters," Mycroft said quietly.  "It was his wife, Queen Caroline."  
  
There was silence for a moment.    
  
Sherlock frowned slightly.  "And what does this person intend to do?  The Queen's reputation is already ruined.  She has been denied attendance to the Coronation ceremony.  Even though the House of Lords dropped the divorce trial, she will never take the throne.  What worse could happen?"  
  
"She could go to prison," Mycroft pointed out.  "Miss Adler is an Omega, as is the Queen.  Such relationships are illegal."  
  
"She would hardly be the first Queen accused of gross indecency," Sherlock pointed out.  "It was Henry the Eighth's favourite method of disposing of wives, as I recall."  
  
Harry sniffed.  "A less civilized time."  
  
"Perhaps His Majesty would finally be able to secure a divorce, should this information come out." Sherlock pointed out.  
  
Mycroft shook his head.  "In time, perhaps, but these matters must progress slowly.  The common people still cheer her coach when she passes.  She is more popular than the King, and if she were imprisoned we fear there might be riots.  And with such scandal attached to His name, it would be difficult for His Majesty to secure a new marriage, thus providing an heir."  
  
"In that case, Miss Adler must be bought off."  
  
"She refuses to sell," Harry replied.    
  
"Stolen, then," Sherlock said.  "And do not try to tell me that your moral scruples preclude such actions, Brother - I know you too well."  
  
"Five attempts have been made," Mycroft said, not seeming the least bit perturbed by this insinuation.  "Twice her homes have been burgled.  Once her luggage was diverted as she travelled.  Twice she has been waylaid and searched.  Our agents were unable to locate the letters."  
  
"And what do you expect me to do?" Sherlock asked, a bored tone to his voice.  
  
"Recover it, of course."  
  
"When all your highly trained agents have failed to do so?"  
  
Harry frowned.  "Your brother has said that you are the cleverest man in London, after himself.  If anyone can best Miss Adler in a contest of wits, it will be you."  
  
Sherlock didn't look at Mycroft but John could see that this flattery was doing its job.  "And where is Miss Adler now?"  
  
"She arrived in London two days ago," Harry replied, a pleased look on his face.  "I have her address here."  He pulled a note-card from his pocket and passed it to John.  He glanced at the address, raising his eyebrow at the Belgravia location, then passed it to Sherlock who secured it in his pocket. 

"Very well, gentlemen.  I will have some news for you within two days, I have no doubt."  
  
"What can you tell us about Miss Adler's background?" John asked.  
  
Mycroft pulled out a notebook and consulted one of the pages.  "Irene Adler was born in the Colony of New Jersey in 1783.  Her family were Loyalists and fled to Bermuda, where she was raised.  She was married at sixteen to an Alpha named Godfrey Norton, a lawyer with Government House, and gave him a son the following year.  Then, for some unaccountable reason, she fled her home, her husband, and her child, making her way to Milan, Italy.  She became a student at the Milan Conservatory, where her remarkable singing voice won her fame and acclaim across Europe.  She also began a series of clandestine affairs with Omegas of note, many of them members of the Royal Houses of Europe.  She was always careful to collect a sentimental token or letters from her lovers at the start of the affair, items that would cause embarrassment or worse should they come to light.  In this way she has protected herself, should the affairs end badly."    
  
He closed his notebook and looked across at Sherlock.  "Be careful, Sherlock.  Miss Adler is a very clever woman.  Do not underestimate her."  
  
Sherlock scowled but said nothing, rising to his feet.  "Come, John - we have work to do."

* * *

Back at the house, Sherlock flung himself with feverish exuberance at the wardrobe along the back wall of his workroom.  "At last, John!  A truly interesting case!"  
  
John leaned against the door-frame, arms folded across his chest, watching with interest as Sherlock evaluated each of his disguises before abandoning them on the floor.  Mrs. Hudson would be furious, he thought with amusement, although his husband wouldn't care about that.  And he couldn't wait to see what Sherlock's ingenious mind had come up with for a plan.  
  
"I wouldn't think the matter of interest to you at all," he said.  "Royal scandal, sordid blackmail, deviant sexual behaviour -"  
  
Sherlock paused to cast him a shrewd look.  "The bread and butter of most detective work, John.  Human relations are rarely tidy, and quite frequently involve infidelity, immorality, and ultimately death - often under suspicious circumstances."  
  
"That's more than a little cynical, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "It is true, nonetheless.  And in battles centred around sex, love is usually a chemical defect found on the losing side."  
  
He turned back to his search for the perfect disguise, which was just as well because John didn't know what to say in reply.  He knew that Sherlock had no interest in sex with him at present, but he had thought that it was because they had married as strangers.  He had hoped that, when they became more comfortable with each other, Sherlock would be willing to share a bed on occasion, for other than procreation purposes.  Beyond that, he hoped that they would eventually achieve a comfortable sort of affection for one another.   The knowledge that Sherlock considered all love to be a flaw, and a fatal one at that, was disquieting.  
  
To cover his unease, he said, "So how do you plan to put your hands on these letters if Miss Adler protects them so assiduously."  
  
"Easily enough," Sherlock replied, finally settling on a priest's cassock and collar.  "I plan to appeal to her compassionate nature to gain entrance to the house, and then persuade her to reveal her hiding place while in my presence."  He took off his coat, cravat, and vest, tossing them over the back of a chair, and pulled on the cassock.  
  
A brief rummage through one of the cupboards unearthed a flat black hat which he settled on his head in front of the mirror.  Satisfied with his appearance, he swung back toward John.  "Come, John - we have no time to lose.  According to Mycroft's spies, the lady takes a drive every evening, returning to take tea with her current companion before retiring for the night."  
  
"And what do you wish me to do when we arrive there?" John asked, following Sherlock into the sitting room where he retrieved his own hat and overcoat.    
  
"Hit me."  
  
John swung around to stare at Sherlock, aghast.  "I beg your pardon!"  
  
"Hit me!  Didn't you hear what I said?"  
  
"I often hear 'hit me' when you're being particularly obnoxious, but it's usually subtext."  John frowned.  "Why do you want me to hit you?"  
  
Sherlock gave a world-weary sigh, as if John had somehow missed an obvious clue.  "I require Miss Adler to bring the priest wounded on her doorstep into her house, but first I need to be wounded.  Miss Adler spent many years in Italy and has retained a fondness for the trappings of the Church; also, as a member of a group that has often been bullied and oppressed, she will feel instant sympathy for the plight of a poor priest.  Therefore, I need you to hit me - preferably on the cheekbone which should bruise nicely, although if you can manage a split lip, that would be - "  
  
"No!" John replied, revolted at the idea of laying a violent hand on Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock paused in mid-sentence, looking at John with surprise.  "Why not? Oh - you are concerned that others will think that you're the sort of Alpha who physically abuses his Omega spouse.  Not to worry, John - anyone acquainted with you will know that you would never do such a thing."  
  
"Exactly!" John said, emphatically.    
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Oh for - Wiggins!" he shouted,striding out onto the landing.  "Wiggins!  Where the devil are you?"  
  
Wiggins trotted up the stairs.  "Visitin' with Mrs. H, m'lord.  What was you bellowing about?"  
  
Sherlock gestured towards his face.  "I need you to strike me, leaving a bruise on my cheek and slightly cutting my lip."  
  
"Right, m'lord."    
  
Before John could protest, Wiggins had landed a splendidly precise jab to Sherlock's cheek, followed by another to his mouth.  Sherlock staggered back under the assault and John started forward automatically, to check the damage.  Sherlock, however, had recovered quickly and swung around to study the effect in the mirror.  
  
"Excellent!" he said, then turned back to John.  "Come, John!  We must arrive as she returns from her drive!"  
  
He swept down the stairs and out the door.  John glared at Wiggins and considered whether to give him a sharp set-down or fire him on the spot, but Sherlock's impatient shout of "John!" from downstairs reminded him that Sherlock was apt to leave him behind if he wasn't on the pavement when the cab arrived.  
  
"You will not fire Wiggins," Sherlock told him as they climbed into the cab.  He gave the driver the address, then turned to hand John a small paper cylinder with a fuse on one end.  "Since you refuse to play the role of my attacker, you will be my rescuer.  You must prevail upon Miss Adler to admit us to the house, then find some excuse to leave the room.  Light this - it is a smoke bomb - and place it where it will not be seen but where the smoke will freely disperse.  I will do the rest."  
  
John tucked the smoke bomb into his pocket, doubtful of the success of the plan.  They were set down a few blocks away from the house and John followed as Sherlock briskly strode the remaining distance while scanning the road.  He made a satisfactory sound as he sighted a carriage approaching, then darted towards a small cluster of rough-looking lads loitering on the nearby corner.  Upon reaching them, he then abruptly collapsed to the ground.  Startled and concerned, John ran towards him, causing the toughs to scatter - and coincidentally giving the impression that they had caused Sherlock's collapse.  
  
John went to a knee beside Sherlock, automatically checking his vital signs.  Sherlock appeared, for all intents and purposes, unconscious, and John wondered if he'd hit his head as he fell.  Frantically, he looked around for assistance.  "Help!" he shouted.  "Help!"  Not seeing anyone to aid him, John turned back to Sherlock and tried to raise him from the ground.  Sherlock was a dead weight and, even more worried, John looked around and shouted for help again.  
  
A delicately shaped foot in an elegant boot appeared in his vision and he looked up to see a very beautiful woman looking down at them.  She was no longer in the blush of youth, but her hair was untouched by grey and her cheek smooth as a young girl's.  It was easy to see how she had acquired a strong of royal lovers.  "What has happened - oh!"  It was clear that she'd seen the "priest" and his injuries.  
  
"Those roughs," John said, unable to disguise his worry.  "They must have set upon him as he passed.  He needs medical care, immediately."  He glanced down the road, as if looking for a cab or other assistance.  
  
"My house is right here," Miss Adler said.   "Can you bring him inside?"  
  
"If one of your man-servants would assist me," John replied, trying once again to rouse Sherlock and raise him from the ground.  This time, Sherlock seemed to come around, groaning and trying to open his eyes.  John got a shoulder under one arm and a sturdy young man did the same on the other side, and in this fashion they half-carried Sherlock into the house and laid him on the sofa.  
  
"What is to be done for the poor man?" Miss Adler asked, staring down at the priest reclining on her sofa.  "Should we call for a doctor?"  
  
"I _am_ a doctor," John said.  "If I could have a bowl of water and some clean cloths, I can determine the extent of his injuries."  
  
"Of course," she replied.  "Kate!" she called, and a lovely younger woman came into the room.  "Would you show this gentleman to our medical supplies and procure a basin of water?"  
  
John followed her into the hallway, casting an anxious look over his shoulder at Sherlock.  The "priest" opened one of his eyes and winked at John before closing his eye again with a groan and, much relieved, John left the room.  Kate showed John to a pantry off the main hall where he found a box of medical supplies and a basin to pour water into, then she hurried off on another errand.   John quickly lit the fuse of the smoke bomb and stepped back into the front hall, tucking it behind a potted plant, then went back to the pantry to tuck bandages and a bottle of iodine in a pocket before picking up the basin.  A quick glance towards the potted plant assured him that the bomb was doing its job as a cloud of smoke began rising from the floor.  Satisfied, John re-entered the parlour, prepared to play the solicitous doctor, only to find that something had dramatically changed.  
  
Sherlock was sitting upright on the sofa, his clerical collar between the teeth of Miss Irene Adler, who was sitting astride his lap.  She had discarded her long driving coat and he could see that she was clad in the inexpressibles, shirt, and waist-coat of an Alpha woman, rather than the proper dress of an Omega female.  The clothes were well-fitted, showing the definition of her legs and torso, and he couldn't have been more shocked if she had been naked.  
  
"Come in, Doctor," she called out, removing the collar from between her teeth but not moving her intent gaze from Sherlock's face.  "I think you'll find that your patient is much improved."  
  
John realized that he'd been staring and turned his eyes away from Miss Adler, glancing down at the basin, then back at Sherlock.  "I've missed something, haven't I?"  
  
Irene rose smoothly from Sherlock's lap, taking the collar with her, and smirked at John.  "I imagine that's a familiar feeling.  Won't you please have a seat, Lord Saughton?"  
  
John looked back at Sherlock, frowning, wondering why he had changed the plan but Sherlock shook his head slightly.  "I didn't tell her."  
  
"No, he didn't," Irene confirmed, sitting on an overstuffed chair and crossing her legs.  John hastily looked away, setting the basin on a table and closing the door to the hallway.  "Am I making you uncomfortable, Lord Saughton?"  
  
"I don't think John knows where to look," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Oh, he knows exactly where - he's just too much of a gentleman to do so."  She curled her legs up in the chair under her.  "There - is that better?"  
  
John ignored her, taking a seat at the end of the sofa next to Sherlock.  
  
"Which begs the question - who dared to strike your face like that, Lord Sherlock?  Not Lord Saughton - as I said, he's too much of a gentleman to strike an Omega without provocation."  
  
"Perhaps I provoked him," Sherlock retorted, sitting back and unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt.  
  
"Since he agreed to marry you, even knowing your nature, I doubt that is possible."  Her eyes flicked over John, then turned back to Sherlock, examining him more closely.  "And it seems as if his gentlemanly behaviour extends to the bedroom as well.  Such a pity - virginity is such a bore."  
  
John could feel himself flushing and he looked away from Irene, towards Sherlock, wondering what the plan was now.  Should he go extinguish the smoke bomb before it alarmed Miss Adler's companion?    
  
"I'm not here to discuss our private relations," Sherlock said sharply, drawing John's attention back toward him.  
  
"No, you're here to secure the letters I received from Caroline, but since I am not going to give them to you, we should discuss something else" Irene said frankly.  "That murderous cab driver - did you ever discover his employer?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared at her.  "I have my suspicious."  
  
"No you don't.  People only say things like that when they haven't a clue."  Irene stood up and opened a filigree box on the table at her elbow and took out a Spanish cigarillo, lighting it from the lamp, then returned to her seat.  She laughed at the disapproving look on John's face, then turned back to Sherlock.  "I understand that you're very clever at figuring out people just by looking at them.  Go on - deduce me.   Intelligence is _such_ an aphrodisiac."  
  
Sherlock looked at her intently but then he frowned.  "I think not," he said, rising to his feet.  "If you will not negotiate with us, we have no further business.  Come, John!"  
  
"Don't sulk - " Irene began but something near the door caught her attention and her eyes widened.  "What have you done?" she demanded, turning a furious look toward Sherlock.  
  
"What - " John turned toward the door and was startled to see smoke sliding under the door and billowing up into the room.  "Good lord!  Fire!"  He sprang up from the sofa and started for the door.  
  
"John, stop!" Sherlock shouted, visibly agitated.  "That much smoke - the hall must be ablaze."  He looked around the room, his eyes alighting on the large windows.  "That way!  Hurry!"  
  
John strode to the window, throwing up the sash and looking out.  Fortunately, this was a newer house with the parlour on the ground floor, so It was only a short drop to the garden, and he turned back toward the pair of Omegas.  "Quickly!"  
  
Irene hesitated for a moment and glanced at the fireplace.  Then, apparently deciding that they had nothing to do with the fire, she accepted John's help out the window.  "What about Kate?"  
  
"No doubt she will have gone out the back way but we will look for her once we are outside," John said reassuringly.  He turned back to help Sherlock, unable to find him for a moment in the growing smoke, but then Sherlock appeared and accepted John's assistance.  With a last glance back into the room, John clambered over the sill and dropped to the ground.    
  
"Quickly, now," he said, guiding them toward the street.  "Fire is unpredictable - the further away we are, the safer."  
  
Once they reached the street, Irene was immediately engulfed in a frantic embrace from the young woman she'd called Kate.  "Thank Heavens!  I was so worried!"  
  
"And here is the fire brigade," John said, directing their attention toward the horse-drawn pump wagon that was pulling into the drive.  "No doubt they shall extinguish the blaze in a trice."  
  
"And we will take our leave of you," Sherlock said, placing the priest's hat back on his head.  "You will have enough on your hands as it is.  Come, John!"  
  
John gave the two women a slight bow of farewell, yielding to the insistent tug of his husband's hand on his sleeve.  He saw Irene's beginning frown before being hurried away and bundled into the first cab that Sherlock found.  
  
"That was a bit rude," John remonstrated.  "Those poor ladies!  Your smoke  bomb must have caught on fire - and we have nothing to show for it."  
  
Sherlock burst out laughing at that.  "Be at ease, John.  It is smoke and nothing else - as the firemen will discover when they enter the house.  But as for our lack of success - "  He removed his hat and produced a small bundle of letters, bound with a black band.    
  
John's eyes nearly fell out of his head.  "You found them!  But how?  Where?"  
  
"When she thought the house on fire, Miss Adler looked towards the fireplace, quite unconsciously.  It is a common reaction to a threat like that, automatically thinking of that which we value and would save.  A close look at the fireplace revealed a hidden cache where these were stored."  
  
"Brilliant!" John said, grinning at him.  "I thought we'd been rumbled when she recognized you - and how did that happen?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "She said that she'd been warned that if the King employed an agent, it would be me.  No doubt a description accompanied that information."

They alighted from the cab at Baker Street, hurrying inside.  "What now?" John asked as they climbed the stairs to their sitting room.  
  
"Now I shall change out of this absurd costume and we shall go out to dinner to celebrate," Sherlock replied, disappearing into his workroom and emerging with his coat and waistcoat.  "After which we shall go 'round to my brother's house where we shall be sure of finding him at that hour, and deliver the letters."    
  
Sherlock quickly divested himself of his costume, throwing it over the back of a chair.  He donned his coat and tied a simple cravat around his neck, then tucked the letters safely into the inner breast pocket of his greatcoat.    
  
Dinner at Simpson's was a merry affair and Sherlock regaled John with stories of some of his cases before they met.  They shared a bottle of champagne in celebration, and perhaps this made their steps a bit unsteady as they waited for a cab.  Not as unsteady, however, as the young man who staggered down the pavement and lost his footing completely as he passed them, briefly collapsing against Sherlock before righting himself with a muttered apology.  Sherlock brushed it off without comment as their cab arrived, the doorman opening the door of the cab for them.  
  
Mycroft was surprised to see them but pleased to hear the reason for their visit.  However, all three received an unpleasant shock when Sherlock reached into his breast pocket and produced, not a packet of letters but a single envelope.  Inside was a single sheet of paper folded around a small framed portrait.  
  
"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft demanded but Sherlock ordered him to hush and unfolded the letter.  
  
"My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he read aloud, then paused for a moment to sit down before continuing. 

 _"You really did it very well.  You took me in completely.  I had a suspicion at the first sight of smoke, but your reaction, and that of your husband, convinced me that it was not of your doing.  It was your abrupt departure that first raised my doubts, and then when we were admitted into the house, the Fire Captain showed me the device you so cunningly deployed.  It was then that I realized that I had betrayed myself.  As I told you, I was warned against you, and by the very man whose existence you seek with regard to the Hope murders.  I intend to follow you this evening and regain those letters and, as you are now reading this, I know that I was successful._  
  
_You need not worry about me any longer - or rather, your brother can cease worrying, as I doubt that the matter troubles you at all.   While I retrieve my property, Kate will be packing the household for our flight from England, so if you should revisit my house to recover the letters, you will find the nest empty.  You may reassure the King and his minions that he has nothing to fear from me, nor the Queen, whom I regard with nothing but fondness.  I shall retain the letters only to safeguard myself against any steps that They and your brother might take in the future._  
  
_I leave a portrait of myself that you might wish to retain, to remember me by, and I regret that we had no opportunity to become better acquainted.  Intelligence is indeed an aphrodisiac, and I would have enjoyed the Hunt._  
  
_I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_  
  
_Very truly yours,_  
  
_Irene Adler"_

 

"Well," Mycroft said after a moment of silence.  "I suppose that settles the matter, although I don't know if such a woman can be trusted to keep her word."  
  
Sherlock turned on his heel abruptly and descended the stairs, and John heard the slam of the front door behind him.  He turned to Mycroft and said, "I had best go after him or he's liable to leave without me."    
  
He started down the stairs but turned back when he heard Mycroft call his name.  He was surprised to see that his brother-in-law was looking troubled, unsettled.  "Yes?"  
  
"I shouldn't have involved him in this matter.  I had no idea... That is... I thought he would be immune to...."  Mycroft paused and cleared his throat.  "I _am_ sorry, John."  
  
"What, Sherlock's tantrum?  Hardly unusual, that.  He'll sulk for a bit at being bested but a new case will come along and distract him."  
  
Mycroft sighed heavily.  "I hope that is so.  I sincerely do."  
  
John frowned at this but he bid farewell and hurried down the stairs.  A little to his surprise, he found that Sherlock was waiting for him in the cab, although he said not a word during the drive to Baker Street.  Sherlock left him to settle with the driver, and when John ascended the stairs to their sitting room, he found Sherlock standing in front of the window, staring out at the street.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned by his husband's unusual stillness.  Had the failure of his mission affected him so badly?  Or was there something about Miss Adler that had touched him more deeply?  Sherlock hadn't seemed to find her of interest - but then, she had bested him and that was something that few had done.   
  
"Of course," Sherlock said, his tone of voice conveying that he was anything but all right.  "I am fine.  I'm absolutely fine."  He turned and took his violin off the desk, pulling the bow across the strings to make a discordant note.  
  
John sighed.  It looked like it was going to be one of those nights, and the peace and quiet of the armchair in front of his bedchamber fireplace looked very inviting.  "Very well.  I'm going up to my bedchamber, if you need me."  
  
Sherlock didn't turn around.  "Why would I need you?"  
  
"No reason at all." 

And there was no reason why those off-hand words from Sherlock should have hurt him, for they were not a love-match, after all.  So John ignored the painful sensation in his heart as he climbed the stairs to his room and readied himself for bed.  Then he lay staring at the ceiling long into the night, accompanied by a mournful lament played on the violin.  
 


	31. Part III: Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of their marital difficulties, John and Sherlock are approached by Sir Henry Baskerville who has an unusual problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter (which is why it took so long to post), 1 of 3 chapters dealing with Hounds of Baskerville, as this will turn out to be a pivotal event in many ways. 
> 
> It is also a merge of the ACD "Hound of the Baskervilles" and the Sherlock BBC episode, with a mixture of plot and characters, plus a few bits thrown in from various movies (but not the Frewer one!). Some of the characters will lean towards their Canon characters, some will lean more towards the BBC version, and some are a mix for purposes of the plot of this chapter and the over-arching plot for the story. In addition, some canon facts have been altered, to fit the purposes of my story, and in particular related to the overarching A/B/O theme. 
> 
> For purposes of my plot, this takes place in the middle of the Irene Adler arc. (You didn't really think that you'd seen the last of her, did you?) Also, if you like a little porn with your angst&drama, be sure to look for Chapter 5 of "Three Continents Watson", which will be posted in a few days. (But don't skip ahead or it won't make sense!)
> 
> Some of the text is straight from ACD Canon and some from BBC Sherlock, courtesy of [Ariane DeVere's transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/28352.html).

For the next week, an unsettled atmosphere hung over 221 Baker Street.  John felt it like the prelude to a thunderstorm in the air, and the servants seemed to sense it as well for even Wiggins went about his usual tasks with a more subdued manner.  Sherlock was by turns moody and snappish, and nothing seemed to please him.  He paced about the sitting room and complained about the lack of cases, or lay immobile on the sofa for hours, staring at nothing.  And while John would have usually begged for some sort of case from Lestrade, no matter how banal, with the current tension between them, he was reluctant to intrude upon Sherlock's domain, his Work.  Unfortunately, even the post failed to provide anything more intriguing than the odd death of a child's pet rabbit - and that had set Sherlock off on such a rant that John had fled to his club rather than stay to be roundly abused.  Even when Sherlock picked up his beloved violin, it was to play discordant notes and frantic snatches of music that danced upon John's last nerve.  Even Mycroft forbore to cross their threshold, although John would have welcomed an argument between the brothers if it would clear the air.  
  
A week after the Belgravia Scandal, as John privately termed the Adler case, they were entertaining morning visitors when an event occurred that once again shook up their household.  Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that _John_ was entertaining morning visitors.  Sherlock was pacing back and forth behind the chairs, balancing his teacup and saucer on his top hat - and why he was wearing the hat indoors was a mystery to John.  Not that he was about to inquire, for fear that Sherlock would turn his attention instead to their visitors, deducing by a shoelace or hatpin which of them was having an affair and which was expecting yet another addition to their family.  (John knew, but primarily because Mrs Hudson was a terrible gossip and up on the latests _on-dits_.)  The sound of the doorbell made John desperately hope for any kind of interruption as Lady Bellington droned on and on about the cleverness of her eldest child (who, in John's opinion, sounded like he was born to be hanged).  There was a murmur of voices in the hallway - Mrs Hudson and a stranger's - and then a young man burst into the room.  
  
"Lord Sherlock!" the young man cried out, his desperation obvious to even John.  "I am being pursued!  You must help me!  If you don't - I am a dead man!"  
  
With that, his eyes rolled up in his head and the man fell down in a dead faint on their rug.  And as John went to the young man's aid, he was all too aware of Lady Bellington and Mrs Escott's avid stares.  No doubt this tale would be making the rounds of all the drawing rooms before the day was over.  
  
This, he thought with an internal sigh, is why we need a separate parlour for clients.  
  
A quick check of his pulse confirmed to John that the young man had merely fainted.  With very little persuasion - no doubt because they were eager to start spreading this tale - John managed to convince their other guests to cut short their visit, while Sherlock shouted for Wiggins to fetch the smelling salts.  As John opened the front door for their morning callers, he found another stranger on the doorstep, just about to knock.  The man looked startled as the door suddenly opened and two middle-aged women emerged but recovered quickly.  
  
"Lord Sherlock Holmes?" this second man asked.  
  
"I'm afraid that he's occupied with another client," John began, but at his words the man's anxiety cleared.  
  
"Then Henry arrived here safely?  I was so worried when he dashed off, without even his hat!"  
  
Aware that this exchange was being avidly observed, John stood back from the doorway saying, "Won't you come in?" before turning to the two ladies to bid them a cordial farewell.  He closed the door behind this second client, gesturing towards the drawing room.  "In here.  I'm afraid that the young man has fainted, although he doesn't appear to be in any medical difficulty,"  he added as the man's eyes fell upon the unconscious figure lying on the floor.  
  
"Ah, then you are Lord Saughton!" this second man said, extending his hand.  "Forgive my manners, my lord.  I am Doctor James Mortimer, and the young man currently decorating your rug is my stepson, Sir Henry Baskerville."  
  
John couldn't help smiling at the good humour of the man as he shook hands, deciding that he liked the doctor.  He looked over at Sherlock who was intently studying their recumbent client.  "Sherlock, Dr. Mortimer is here with our new client."  
  
At that, Sherlock looked up, taking in the appearance of this second man.  "Ah!" he said, looking immensely pleased.  "I can see that you have both travelled a considerable distance to consult with me.  If you would have a seat and begin by telling me the exact nature of the problem - "  
  
"Sherlock," John interrupted, frowning.  "Perhaps we should take care of your _original_ client before we move on to the case?"    
  
Sherlock snorted at this and flung himself into a chair, clearly sulking.  John ignored him, turning to Dr. Mortimer.  "I believe that he would be more comfortable on the sofa, if you would take his feet?"  Dr. Mortimer nodded and assisted John in relocating the young man, taking care to lay him flat with a pillow under his feet.  John took the young man's pulse, finding it steady, then stepped into the hallway to take the smelling salts from Wiggins and request tea from Mrs Hudson.  A quick wave of the aromatic bottle under Sir Henry's nose brought him around, although John's hand on his shoulder kept him lying down.  
  
"Gently, my good sir.  You have had a considerable shock.  Rest here for a bit, quietly, and when you are feeling a bit more the thing you can tell Lord Sherlock your tale."  He turned to Wiggins.  "If you would stay here with Sir Henry and bring him upstairs when he has recovered?"   Wiggins nodded and settled into one of the armchairs while Sir Henry closed his eyes again with a little moan.  Satisfied, John gestured towards the doorway and said, "Sherlock, Dr. Mortimer, I believe that we should adjourn to the parlour upstairs."  
  
Sherlock strode out of room, clearly eager to get to the case, while Dr. Mortimer gave one final appraising look at his stepson and then followed.  John paused to cast a blanket over Sir Henry's legs, then followed.  When he reached their parlour, he saw that Dr. Mortimer was looking around the room and opened his mouth to apologize for the disorder but Mortimer forestalled him.  
  
"Now, this is something like!" Mortimer said, looking around with real pleasure.  "It is exactly as I pictured it from your tales, Lord Saughton."  
  
"Then it was your idea to bring your case, whatever it is, here?" Sherlock asked, settling in his chair and crossing his legs negligently.  His tone of voice was languid but John could see the sparkle of interest in his husband's eyes, and he was delighted to see it.  
  
"No, it was Henry who insisted on bringing the case to you," Mortimer said, taking a seat on the sofa  while John settled in his usual chair.  "But I had inadvertently planted the idea by my admiration of your stories.  I have been reading the cases aloud."  
  
"And what _is_ the case?" Sherlock asked.  "Before he fainted, the young man said something about being pursued, and that he would be a dead man without my help.  Following that with a melodramatic swoon, however, makes we wonder if it was pure hyperbole."  
  
Mortimer looked grave at this.  "I am afraid that Henry was in deadly earnest.  He is being hunted - if not by a devil hound, then by an evil person intent on driving him mad."  
  
There was silence for a moment, then Sherlock drew in a breath of delighted anticipation and leaned forward.  "Tell. Me. _All_."  
  
John was relieved to see that Dr. Mortimer was delighted by this reaction rather than offended, and Mortimer leaned forward in his seat as well.   "To begin with, I must tell you about the first Baronet, Sir Hugo Baskerville.  He married a rich heiress, Marie de Courcey, and was given a baronetcy, but in truth he was an evil man.  He was a member of the first Hellfire Club but found its entertainment too tame, so he established a private club of his own, centred at Baskerville Hall.  The debaucheries he and his fellows committed... well.  His favourite sport was snatching the daughters of local yeomen, despoiling them, and then setting them loose on the moors to be hunted.  I am told that they rarely escaped with their lives - torn to pieces by the hounds or swallowed by the mire.  
  
"One fateful night, he snatched a young woman by the name of Alice, daughter of the local curate - thumbing his nose at God, it is said.  When she was set free to be hunted at the edge of the moors, she refused to run, instead falling to her knees and praying for salvation.  Sir Hugo jeered at her and raised his arm to signal for the dogs to be released.  But at that moment, so legend goes, a large black hound with gleaming red eyes appeared - a Demon Hound, it is said.  He pulled Sir Hugo from his horse and dragged him down to the Pit, with that evil man screaming for the mercy he never granted to others."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "An instructive tale, to be sure, but I fail to see what relevance this has - unless it is the actual cause of Sir Hugo's death that you wish me to uncover?"  
  
"No.  I can truthfully say that no one much cares about the truth of the tale and that Sir Hugo was not mourned by anyone - especially his widow who took refuge with her family during the first year of their marriage.  She produced one child, an Alpha son and heir to Sir Hugo, whom she named John.  Now John was a different sort from his father - tightly controlled by his mother, it is said.  He had three children - two sons and one daughter - before dying from a heart condition at forty-five.  His eldest son, Sir Charles, lived a good, long life - most of it away from Baskerville Hall - but the second son, William, died of similar heart problems at thirty-five,  and William's eldest son, John - Henry's father - was only twenty-five when he was murdered."  
  
"Murdered?" John asked.  "How?"  
  
"It was a gigantic hound," said a voice from the doorway and they turned to see Henry standing there.  He looked pale but resolute, his eyes meeting Sherlock's squarely.  "Black, with glowing red eyes."  
  
"My dear boy, how are you feeling?" Mortimer asked, rising from the sofa and crossing to his step-son.  He guided him to the sofa and urged him to sit.  With her usually flawless timing, Mrs Hudson appeared with the tea-tray at that moment, and the mundane business of pouring tea took precedence over the realm of the fantastic.  But once they had been settled with their tea, Sherlock turned back to Henry.  
  
"You said it was a hound."  
  
Henry nodded.  "A gigantic hound."  
  
"A gigantic hound, black, with red eyes.  How do you know?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Because I was there," Henry said quietly, then drew in a deep breath.  "I was five.  My father and I used to walk along the moors in the evening.  We had just reached Devil's Hollow when it came out of the dark - a monstrous beast - and grabbed him.  He - he was screaming and I - I was too - too frightened to - to move."  His hands shook badly and he set down his teacup, then covered his face with his hands.  
  
Mortimer put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.  "You were only five; there was nothing you could do except run for help, which you did."  
  
Henry knuckled his tears away, like the child he had been, nodding.  "When we returned to the Hollow, there was no sign of my father or the hound, just blood..."  His voice trailed off.  
  
Mortimer looked at Sherlock.  "They never found John's body - dragged into the mire by some wild creature was the verdict.   Grace - that was John's wife - refused to remain at Baskerville a moment longer.   Sir Charles closed up the house and took Grace and Henry to the family's holdings in South Africa.  That's where I was; the family had hired me as the company doctor for their mines."  
  
"So you weren't at Baskerville Hall when Henry's father died," Sherlock said.  "You were close to the family, though, to be trusted with such an important post right out of medical school."  
  
"John and I grew up together, went to University together.  He was my dearest friend, and I was Best Man at his wedding."  
  
"And yet you married his widow and are raising his son," Sherlock said pointedly.  
  
Mortimer didn't seem to take offence at this, nodding in response.  "It was the last service I could provide for him," he said forthrightly.  "I never expected to have a wife or family of my own, you see - I am a Beta and sterile.  Grace was very fragile after John's death - she was very sensitive to spiritual energies, you understand.  When she developed consumption shortly after their arrival in South Africa, I was grateful to be able to set her mind at rest concerning Henry's future."  
  
"Did you return to Baskerville Hall then?"  
  
Mortimer shook his head.  "I had promised Grace that I would do my best to keep Henry away from there, to keep him safe.  She was convinced that it was an evil place and that any Baskerville who lived there was cursed.  We remained in South Africa until a few months ago."  
  
"This curse doesn't seem to have affected Sir Charles," Sherlock said.  
  
"But it did," Sir Henry interjected.  "He had only been in England for one year when he died."  
  
"If I might ask the cause of his death?" John asked.  
  
"Heart attack, they said," Mortimer said.  
  
"He was frightened to death," Henry added, forcefully.  "He was found in Devil's Hollow, eyes wide and staring, an expression of terror on his face."  
  
Sherlock frowned slightly, and John felt a sinking sensation as he saw a look of boredom forming.  Hastily, John said, "While these events were unfortunate - "  
  
"They are more than unfortunate," Henry snapped.  "Since Sir Hugo, every Baskerville has met a violent end.  I am next; I know it."  
  
"And what is it that you wish me to do?" Sherlock asked, the bored tone of his voice evident.  
  
"Save my life." Henry said baldly.  "Since I returned to Baskerville Hall, I've heard the Hound pacing the grounds at night and I've seen its shadow.  That's what brought me to London, to seek your aid, but when we arrived here this morning, I found this in the pocket of my coat."    
  
Henry pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to John.  He unfolded it and saw that it was a warning to Henry to leave Baskerville, composed from words that appeared to be cut from a newspaper. 

John handed it to Sherlock and he frowned over the message.  "Someone wants you to leave, that much is obvious."  He set down the note and looked squarely at Henry.  "I am afraid that there is little that I can do for you.  Perhaps it would be better for you to give the place up."  
  
"I've tried to talk Henry into leaving," Mortimer said with a sigh.  "He won't listen."  
  
Henry straightened, an unexpected spark of defiance in his eyes as he met his step-father's eyes.  "I won't be driven away from my own home!  And what will happen to Beryl if I go?  You know that she will never leave her grandfather."  
  
"Who is Beryl?" John asked, puzzled.  
  
Henry turned toward him.  "My second cousin, Beryl Stapleton.  She is an Omega and her daughter, Kirsten, is the next heir.  If I leave, their lives will be in danger."  
  
Sherlock's gaze sharpened on Henry.  "Well, that alters matters substantially!" he said, rising from his chair and going to the slipper on the fireplace to add tobacco to his pipe.  "I will take your case, Sir Henry, and I can see that there is no time to be lost.  When do you propose to return to Baskerville Hall?"  
  
John blinked at this abrupt reversal, but Henry's face glowed with joy.  He sprang from his chair, grasping Sherlock's hand and shaking it vigorously.  "Thank you!" he exclaimed.  "I am _very_ grateful!  I am certain that you will get to the bottom of this hellish situation."  
  
Mortimer looked less certain but he rose as well saying, "We have some business to settle here in London, but we were planning to start back the day after tomorrow.  Could you be ready to travel on that day?  We will, of course, cover all travel expenses, and you will stay at Baskerville Hall."  
  
Sherlock waved away such trivial considerations but John agreed that they could leave on that day, provided that Sir Henry allowed them to share in the costs of the journey.  After once again expressing his gratitude, Henry descended the stairs with a much-relieved expression on his face.    
  
"Dr Mortimer, one more question," Sherlock said as the doctor shook hands with John and prepared to follow his step-son.  "If both Sir Henry and his young heir were to be...removed, who is next in line to inherit?"  
  
Mortimer looked blank at the question.  "I don't rightly know.  John had a younger brother but he was a Beta and died in the Americas several years ago, in a place called New Orleans?  Charles's sister, Elizabeth, was Beryl's grandmother but she had only one daughter, and Laura died some years ago.  I can inquire of the family lawyer - we are to see him tomorrow on other business."  
  
"If you would be so kind," Sherlock said languidly, but John could see he was intently studying Mortimer.  "And yourself?  Will you come into any of the property, should your step-son die?"  
  
"Good lord, no!" Mortimer said with a laugh.  "I have no connection with the Baskervilles, save friendship, nor do I wish to gain even a groat from the estate.  I inherited a pretty little property near Dunsford from my father and that is enough for my needs.  It was at my insistence that Grace settled all of her estate on Henry, and the lad will need every penny if he is to bring the place about, even though Charles was rich as a nabob when he left South Africa."    
  
"You are very frank."  
  
Mortimer's lips quirked upward and his eyes gleamed with good humour and sharp intelligence.  "I have no need to bring about the demise of my step-son.  Quite the reverse, in fact, for while I live with him, the demands on my pocketbook are small.  Good day, gentlemen.  We will leave at dawn on the day after tomorrow - and may God have mercy on us."  
  
Once they were gone, John turned to Sherlock, frowning slightly.  "That was quite an about-face.  First you said that there was nothing you could do, then you said that there was no time to be lost.  What changed your mind?"  
  
"Young Kirsten Stapleton," Sherlock said, rising and going to the desk where he rummaged through the letters scattered on it.  Triumphantly, he snatched up one of them and turned back to John.  
  
"'Dear Lord Sherlock Holmes,'" he read aloud.  " 'Please, would you help solve the death of my pet rabbit, Bluebell?  Yesterday morning, when I went to her cage to feed her, she was dead.  Her cage was still locked and there was such a terrified look on her face, as if she had been frightened to death, so I know it wasn't natural, no matter what Mother says.   Uncle James says that you are cleverest detective ever, and read one of your cases aloud to Mother, and I am certain that you could solve this mystery.  Sincerely, Kirsten Stapleton, Lafter Hall, Dartmoor.' "  
  
John's brow creased in thought.  "Stapleton - Sir Henry's heir?"  
  
"The very same!  And the description of her pet's death is most peculiar, don't you think?  First Sir Charles and then a child's rabbit both displaying the same terror at their death?  There are evil forces at play, John - and they have nothing to do with a Demon Hound!"  
  
With every evidence of glee, Sherlock headed up to his room to begin packing.  John pulled out his notebook and began making notes about the case, and he couldn't help hoping that things would start improving between them.

* * *

 

The trip to Dartmoor took two days - quite a feat, which was due to the completed macadamization of the roads between London and Dorchester.  Mortimer had hired the best available coach, with plenty of room inside as well as space for Wiggins beside the coachman.  They had spent the morning going over the particulars of the case, including the various folk legends about the Hound, the coroner's report on Sir Charles' death, and the reports surrounding John Baskerville's disappearance.  At mid-day, they stopped to take luncheon at the White Hart in Worting and to stretch their legs while the horses were changed again.  Afterwards, Sherlock and Henry retreated into their books to while away the tedium of the trip, but Mortimer - sympathetic to John's problem with coach travel - set himself to entertaining John.  He started by describing the area to which they were travelling, talking about the moors in such a way that John could almost see them before his eyes.  Mortimer was also ready to talk about the inhabitants of the area.  
  
"Primary among the close neighbours is Mr. Robert Frankland, whose small estate lies between Baskerville Hall and the village of Grimpen.  Mr. Frankland married Elizabeth Baskerville, Sir Charles' sister, and they had but one child, a daughter named Laura.  She eloped with an artist, one Michael Lyons, against the wishes of her parents.  When he died in abject poverty and obscurity, she returned to her parents, dying less than a year later.  She left a young daughter, Beryl, to be raised by Frankland and his wife, only to have her repeat the same mistake as her mother."  Mortimer paused in speaking, seeming to search to find the right words.  "Frankland is a good man, you understand, but austere and judgemental in his opinions, particularly since his wife's death.  He has quarrelled with most of the village and has half-a-dozen lawsuits pending in Court.  Not the sort of man to understand a young girl's romantic longings, you see?  Beryl ran off with John Stapleton, the son of a local farmer and tenant on the Baskerville estate, but he turned out to be a man with a black temper and, like her mother, Beryl returned to Lafter Hall, also with a small daughter to raise."  
  
"You said that this daughter - Kirsten, was it? - is the next heir at present?"  
  
Mortimer nodded.  "She is an Alpha, and her mother and grandmother were both Omegas.  Miss Kirsten Stapleton stands first, unless Henry produces an heir."  
  
"Even if I should marry and have a child," Henry added, looking up from his book, "I have made assurances for both Miss Kirsten's dowry and an annuity for her mother."  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "A generous offer," he said.  "Do you mind my asking the value of the estate?  It might shed some light on why someone would go to such lengths."  
  
Mortimer hesitated, glancing at Henry who replied, "Sir Charles' legacy to me, minus some gifts and endowments, stands in excess of one million pounds, in real estate and Funds."  
  
John exchanged a look with Sherlock.  "Ample reason, indeed."  
  
"Beryl wouldn't!" Henry said forcefully.  "She is - the kindest and sweetest of women, an angel!  If you knew what she has suffered at the hands of that monster she married - "  He broke off, looking out the window, his cheeks flushing. 

John glanced back at Mortimer and saw that he was gazing fondly on his step-son, then he looked over at Sherlock who was also studying Henry intently.  
  
"And what has become of Mr. Stapleton?" John asked.  
  
"He seems to have disappeared," Mortimer replied.  "It's been over six years since Beryl last saw him and he has made no attempt to contact her - or to provide support for her and their child."  
  
John frowned at that.  A married Omega had little recourse if abandoned by their spouse as they could not work for a living nor call upon the parish for relief.  Mrs. Stapleton was lucky to have family.  He glanced sideways at Sherlock, relieved that he would never have to worry about his own husband being destitute, even if the Watson estate fell to pieces.    
  
"And your other neighbours?" he asked, thinking it best to steer the conversation in another direction.    
  
"Not many of those," Mortimer replied.  "There's a naturalist, Jack Vandeleur, who has leased Merripit House - that's the old Stapleton place."  
  
"How long has Mr. Vandeleur been a tenant?"  
  
"A little over a year.  He is an academic on sabbatical for two years, studying the insect life on the moor," said Mortimer.  "He is quite well known in academic societies and has published a number of papers on insect behaviour.  I've read one, in the Royal Society's journal some years back, about certain scents released by honeybee workers to defend their territory and hive."  
  
"Indeed?" Sherlock said, looking very interested in this information.  "I am an avid scholar of bees myself, and I would enjoy discussing such matters with an expert."  
  
"I'm certain that can be arranged, although Vandeleur is something of a recluse," Mortimer said.  "Once we are settled back at the Hall, Henry, you should consider hosting a dinner so that Lord Sherlock may meet our neighbours."    
  
Henry frowned at that.  "I don't care for Vandeleur at all," he said.  "He looks down his nose at me, just because I didn't attend Oxford or Cambridge.  And he makes Beryl uncomfortable, the way he stares at her, like she's one of those night-crawling insects he's always going on about."  
  
"And yet this would afford Lord Sherlock the opportunity to meet all at once, and so put his finger on the instigator of these worrisome pranks," Mortimer pointed out.  "I'm certain that Beryl would be willing to help organize such a dinner, and it would give her something pleasant to occupy her time."  
  
Henry looked much taken with this and readily agreed, and as he and Dr. Mortimer fell to discussing the particulars of this dinner party, John turned his attention to the view outside their coach.  The countryside was beautiful.  John had travelled the road between London and Worting in the past, from whence he had taken the southern road to Southampton and Portsmouth, but this part of the road that led towards Land's End was unfamiliar.  He wished that they had been travelling alone, for he would have enjoyed riding along these roads on horseback, but instead he had to content himself with observing the scenery.  The roads were remarkably well-kept and the springs of the carriage well-made, so that John soon drifted off to sleep.  
  
He awoke with a start as they reached Salisbury, surprised that he had slept through at least one change of horses.  Dusk was falling, and he was relieved to see that they were drawing up for the night at the King's Arms.  Dr. Mortimer had apparently sent word ahead to reserve rooms and a private parlour and, after taking a half-hour to refresh and change clothes, the four sat down to a very agreeable dinner.    
  
When they had finished, Dr. Mortimer suggested a card game to while away the evening hours, but Sherlock declined as he rose from the table.  
  
"I shall retire for the night to assemble my notes on this case," he said.    
  
John rose as well.  "Do you need my assistance?  I have made several notes - "  
  
"No - thank you," Sherlock said shortly, turning away.  "My notes are here," he said, tapping a finger against his temple.  "What I require is quiet so that I may put those thoughts in order."  
  
"Right."  John felt a little foolish, standing there after being rebuffed.  "In that case, I believe that I will take a stroll through town.  Work off dinner and the ache of sitting in a carriage all day.  Would you gentlemen care to join me?" he asked Mortimer and Henry.  
  
Dr. Mortimer shook his head.  "It's been a long day for me.  I believe I'll sit on the back terrace and smoke a pipe for a while before bed."  
  
"I'll join you," Henry said - but to Mortimer, not John.  "I wish to finish my book before we reach home."  
  
Feeling a little relieved not to have the company of strangers, no matter how pleasant, John took his leave of the others.  The lamplighters were just going about their business on the main street which was a-bustle of people doing their last bit of shopping for the evening.  John paid little heed to them, strolling through the town with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the pavement while he pondered the situation. 

The strained relations between Sherlock and himself were becoming nigh on untenable, but he had no notion of how to return to the comfortable companionship they'd enjoyed before Irene Adler had burst into their lives.  No matter how unhappy Sherlock was with him, he couldn't allow Sherlock's reputation to be ruined.  Nor could he force the other man to go through this farce of a marriage when he was now so clearly unhappy.  The only tenable alternative that he could think of was for them to have separate households.  John could return to Saughton - there was ample excuse for him to do so with the mess the estate had been left in and the start of planting season.  Sherlock would remain in London, at Baker Street, where he could have his Work as well as the social contacts that Mycroft had purchased for him with his freedom.  
  
And perhaps if Sherlock was discreet....  
  
John snorted at that, startling a passing flower vendor.  Not much chance of that.   Perhaps Mycroft would install a chaperone, to keep Sherlock company and out of trouble.  Yes, that might work, although it would annoy Sherlock dreadfully to have Mycroft's creature living in his house.  And Wiggins could take John's place with the cases....  
  
A searing, helpless pain filled John at that thought, making him stop in place - much to the irritation of those sharing the pavement with him.  The idea of not being there to watch Sherlock's brilliance, or to share his own bit in the case even if it was just to keep Sherlock safe, was too painful to contemplate.  No, he would just have to find some way to make this work without leaving Sherlock.  If Sherlock wanted to indulge in an affair with Irene Adler, John would learn to develop a selective blindness.  After all, many gentlemen of the Ton managed to ignore their own spouses' affairs.  And if it made him look like a fool and a cuckold in the eyes of others, he could learn to bear the humiliation.  Besides, Sherlock had never seemed to have an interest in physical matters - had, in fact, been more mentally than physically interested in Irene in John's opinion.  John could learn to live with Sherlock being mentally or emotionally unfaithful, even if right now the idea seemed untenable.  
  
With a new determination, John turned around, his steps firm and purposeful as he returned to the inn.  When he reached their room, he found Sherlock sitting in the wing-chair by their fireplace, staring into its flames.  He had exchanged his coat and waistcoat for his dressing gown and had removed his cravat.   John had a feeling that his husband had settled in for the night, especially as there was no reply to his greeting.  He wasn't offended at being ignored; at the moment he was rather relieved as he had the feeling that his recent thoughts were written all over his face.  And Sherlock often retreated into his thoughts to mull over a case, ignoring everything around him.    
  
John quietly went about preparing for bed, changing into his night clothes and slipping between the covers, then he turned on his side facing the fireplace.  From this position, he could observe his husband's face in profile, gathering his own clues about Sherlock's evening.  Sherlock had taken the time to run a wet cloth over his hair for his riot of curls were free from pomade and fell unrestrained over his forehead.  He held a pipe loosely in his hand, the bowl resting against his knee, although it was clear that it was not lit.  All were signs that the Great Mind was sifting through the fragments of information and incomprehensible clues, and It never ceased to amaze John. It made him even more determined to remain with Sherlock, no matter what the personal cost to his pride.  
  
Although he had napped earlier, John found himself drifting off to sleep even though he wanted to remain awake in case Sherlock had need of a sounding board.  But apparently he wasn't yet far enough along in his deductions, for John slept undisturbed until the chambermaid knocked on the door with the news that breakfast would be ready shortly and delivering hot water for shaving.  
  
Another long day of travels brought them to Exeter in the early evening, after stopping for a brief luncheon in Dorchester.  They alighted from the travel coach to find that Sir Henry's own coach and team were waiting to bear them the last six miles home.  The coachman, a taciturn fellow, eyed the guests that the baronet had brought with him from London with a countryman's disdain but said nothing as he stored their luggage in the old-fashioned family coach.  
  
It was fully dark by the time they reached Baskerville Hall, each of them fatigued after two long days of travel.   The Barrymores - Sir Henry's butler and cook - were waiting for them on the front step, and John thought he'd never seen a more foreboding pair.  Barrymore was as thin and gaunt as a skeleton, his sharp black beard providing the only colour to his face.  Mrs. Barrymore was more fleshed out, perhaps evidence that her cooking was decent, but she wore a sour look as she looked them over.  John hoped that it wasn't the unexpected guests that had caused her ire - and that she wouldn't take it out on them with her meals.  
  
"Welcome home, Sir Henry," Barrymore said.  "Mrs. Barrymore has a light supper prepared for you and your guests."  
  
"Thank you, Barrymore," Henry said.  "It's good to be home."  
  
John, taking a look at the bleak structure behind Barrymore, thought that either Henry was being polite or that the place must look better in the daylight.  
  
"The Earl of Saughton and his husband," Henry added, gesturing towards John and Sherlock.  "They'll be our guests for the week."  
  
"Welcome, my lord," Barrymore said, inclining his head, not betraying by a twitch of his eyebrows that their arrival would set the household staff in an uproar.  "If you would follow me, I will show you to your room so that you may refresh yourselves before supper."  
  
John and Sherlock were shown up an old, dark staircase and to a stately set of rooms on the second floor.  The rooms were surprisingly tasteful, very masculine in appearance, and had clearly been redone recently.  
  
John looked around appreciatively.  "Very nice," he said.  
  
"Thank you, my lord.  These were Sir Charles' rooms," Barrymore replied.  
  
"We're not putting Sir Henry out, are we?"  
  
"No, my lord," Barrymore replied.  "Sir Henry prefers his parents' rooms on the first floor, and Dr. Mortimer has a suite of rooms near him."  He glanced around the room as if to ascertain its fitness for occupation.  "I will have the maid light the fire while you are at supper."  With a slight bow, he left the three of them - for Wiggins had joined them with their luggage - to settle in.  
  
Sherlock strode about the room, taking in its features, then opened the door to the adjoining dressing room.  "Good; there is a bed in here, no doubt for Sir Charles' valet.  Wiggins, I will need you to secure a room with the rest of the servants - tell Barrymore that His Lordship will be sleeping in the dressing room."  
  
John was stung by that, particularly as Sherlock had said this in front of Wiggins - not that he imagined they had many secrets from the young man.  He hadn't had any intention of forcing his company on Sherlock and would have offered to sleep in the dressing room, not uncommon for an Alpha when their Omega spouse was unwell or didn't want to breed during a Heat, but having the decision taken out of his hands rankled.  
  
"Fine," John said shortly, picking up his bag and carrying it into the dressing room, shutting the door behind him. 

He set about unpacking his clothes and toiletries, deciding to forego changing for the evening.  No doubt Mortimer and Henry would forgive him for sitting down in his dirt for this first evening.  While he worked he was aware of the murmur of voices in the main room and he scowled as he thought about Sherlock confiding his plans to Wiggins but not John.  He knew it was petty but he waited until he heard Wiggins leave before emerging from the dressing room - rather that than have them stop talking when he re-entered the room.  
  
"John," Sherlock began, as he entered the main bedroom.  
  
"I'm hungry - are you hungry?" John interrupted, not wanting to get into an argument right then.  There was no way that he could face their hosts if he and Sherlock had had cross words before joining them.  "Of course you're not - you rarely are.  Still, you should eat something.  Brain-work needs feeding."  
  
"John, it is vital that Wiggins has access to the staff room, to gather gossip."  
  
"Of course," John agreed, nodding.  He crossed the room to open the door to the hallway.  "We shouldn't keep our hosts waiting."  
  
Sherlock sighed loudly but didn't say anything more, just scowled as he passed John into the hallway.  
  
Their first night at Baskerville Hall couldn't have been said to be a success.  John found the dining room oppressive, panelled in dark woods with inadequate candle light.  His fellow diners were silent, all of them fatigued from their journey, and it was with relief that John finished the light supper set before him and rose to go to bed.  
  
"Sir Henry," Sherlock said, making John pause for a moment to listen to what Sherlock had to say.  "I would like to meet Mrs. Stapleton and her grandfather tomorrow, as well as pay a visit to the site where Sir Charles' body was found."  
  
"Of course," Henry said.  "I shall send a note to Beryl in the morning."  
  
John didn't wait to hear more, collecting a candle from the hall table before proceeding upstairs where he undressed and put on his nightshirt.  He blew out his candle and crawled into the chilly bed, pulling the covers around himself.  Despite his fatigue, he felt restless and was very aware when Sherlock entered the bedroom.  There was a tap on the dressing room door and he heard Sherlock call his name, but he feigned sleep and after a few moments the other man moved away again. 

But it was a long time before John fell asleep.

* * *

 

When John emerged from his room the next morning, there was no sign of Sherlock, which was not surprising as Sherlock rarely seemed to sleep through the night.  Still, John had had a restless night to reflect on his own behaviour and he felt guilty for the way he'd ignored Sherlock.  If he was to make their marriage tolerable, he needed to try harder - that, or give up and retreat to Scotland instead of making them suffer his boorish behaviour.  However, making apologies before their hosts or staff was not something either of them would like, so John wished that Sherlock had slept in for once.  He washed briefly in the basin on the wash-table, then changed his linen and dressed for the day before making his way downstairs.  
  
Dr. Mortimer was the only one present in the dining room when John entered and he looked up with a smile.  "Morning, Lord Saughton!  I'm afraid that you've just missed the others.  Lord Sherlock asked Henry to show him about the place.  Something about odd noises he heard in the night - a woman crying, I believe he said.  Did you hear anything?"  
  
"Can't say that I did," John replied, helping himself to coffee from the sideboard.  There was a decent array of breakfast foods sitting under the covers and John began to have a more hopeful view toward their sojourn there.    
  
"Neither did I, but then I'm a rather deep sleeper."  
  
"Did Sir Henry hear them?" John asked, setting down his cup before returning to the buffet to fill up a plate.  With Sherlock on a case, there was no telling when he would get his next meal.  
  
Mortimer sighed.  "Henry hears a great many things and I am not at all certain that they are real.  He's a Sensitive, you understand - like his mother.  Things not of this world spoke to Grace, which is why she hated this place.  I should never have allowed Henry to return here."  
  
"Why did you, then?" John asked.  "Or why don't you convince him to leave?"  
  
"I suppose it was a natural, if morbid, curiosity on my part to see the place that had figured so largely in his nightmares," Mortimer said.  "A bit of whistling in the dark at the Monsters, if you will.  Henry never planned to stay here for long, just to see that it was in good hands before returning to South Africa, and I agreed with his decision.  Of course, that was before he met Beryl Stapleton."  
  
"She must be quite a woman, to keep Sir Henry tethered here when he is clearly frightened of the place."  
  
"That she is," Mortimer agreed.  "Beryl has a great deal of spirit and strength, as well as patience.  Just the sort of woman to make the perfect wife for my boy, if she could be set free from the brute she married."  
  
"Is there no hope of that?"  
  
"There is a great deal of hope, and while I was in London I set the family lawyer to the task of sorting out the matter.  The blackguard has abandoned her and her child, not contributed to their support, and has sought neither his marital or paternal rights.  If he can be found and will agree to a quiet divorce that would be best.  Otherwise, Beryl will need to appeal to the Courts on the grounds of abandonment.  If he was an Alpha her chances would be less, but as he was a Beta, she might be allowed the separation."  
  
"And you think Sir Henry would marry her, despite the notoriety of divorce?"  
  
"He'd have her in her shift, without a penny or dress, were she to consent - and I have no doubts on that, either.  Like April and May, the two of them."  
  
"So Mrs. Stapleton keeps Sir Henry here, but why does _she_ not leave?  Especially if she cares for him and sees how bad this place is for him."  
  
"It's her grandfather," Mortimer replied.  "Bob Frankland has sworn that he was born in this place and will die here.  Having left him once to run off with Stapleton, Beryl has said that she will remain here at his side so long as he lives.  And Frankland is just stubborn enough to outlive all of us, particularly as he is in the middle of a number of lawsuits and nothing makes him happier.  You'll see them at dinner, for we have all been invited to Lafter House for the evening."  
  
John professed himself eager for the meeting, then applied himself to his breakfast while thinking over what he had learned.  
  
After breakfast, he decided that a walk to the local village of Grimpen would give him the opportunity to look around the area.  It was a three mile walk along a well-worn carriage road, and as the day was fair, he took his time.  Grimpen turned out to be a grim little hamlet comprised of an inn, the village grocery, and a surgery that had limited hours posted below Dr. Mortimer's name.  A smattering of battered-looking cottages lay beyond it and a few people were going about their business, looking at him curiously as he wandered about and glanced into the grocery.  He thought that the place had little to recommend it and wondered that Henry would want to spend any time in the area.

It being too early to procure a glass of beer at the inn, he turned back towards Baskerville Hall, this time taking the path that ran along the moor.  Along this path, facing the moor, he passed by an austere looking house, smaller than Baskerville Hall but no less grim, which he took to be Lafter Hall.  On the roof he spied a type of telescope that appeared pointed at the moor although no one was using it at the moment.  He continued onward and had just rounded a bend when he heard the sound of running feet behind him and a voice calling out for him to wait. 

John paused and turned, and saw that a beautiful young woman was running along the path towards him.  He guessed at once that this must be Beryl Stapleton, and it was equally clear why Henry was smitten with her.  Her thick brunette hair was swept up in a pile on her head, obviously done with haste for a few curls had escaped and lay along her neck. She had perfect, even features, with the full mouth and large eyes reminiscent of Spanish beauties he had seen during the War.   
  
"Lord Sherlock!" she cried out to him.  "As you value your life, return to London - and take Sir Henry with you!"  
  
John paused, bewildered both by the mislabelling as by the urgent warning.  "We have only just arrived from London - "  
  
"And I wish to God that you had remained there!" she said, and there was no mistaking the fear in her voice.  "I had hoped you'd persuade Henry to stay away."  
  
"I wish you would tell me why."  
  
She shook her head impatiently.  "There isn't any time!  Quick!  Help me look for my dog."  Saying that, she turned away and began calling out in a coaxing voice for "Fluffy".    
  
John was completed confused by this abrupt change in subject but obligingly started calling for the missing animal.  A moment later, a lovely little spaniel came running up to them, barking in excitement and pawing at John's legs.  Fearing damage to his boots, John scooped up the dog, receiving an enthusiastic face-licking in return.  He held the animal out towards her.  
  
"Thank you!  You are very obliging, my lord!" she said, accepting the dog into her arms  
  
Just then another figure came walking along the path from the other direction.  He was slim and well-formed, with fair hair and smooth face, about John's age.  He was dressed in a rough tweed coat, linen shirt, and buckskin trousers, with a straw hat on his head and sturdy boots upon his feet that were much mired.  A tin box for specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a net in his hand.  
  
"Mrs Stapleton!" this new man called out, humour evident in his voice.  "Has your dog escaped the house again?  Will you not take my advice and get rid of that little nuisance?"  
  
"Nonsense," she said coolly.  "Grandfather adores her,  And this gentleman very kindly lent his assistance in catching her up."  She turned an inquiring look to John.  
  
"Not at all," John said gallantly, removing his hat and bowing briefly to her.  "John Watson, Earl of Saughton, at your service."  
  
Her eyes widened but she recovered quickly, shifting the dog in her arms so that she could extend her hand to him.  "Mrs. Beryl Stapleton, of Lafter Hall."  
  
John bowed over her hand.  "Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer have spoken of you often during our journey here."  
  
"Then you are visiting at Baskerville Hall," the man said, holding out his hand. "Jack Vandeleur, currently residing at Merripit House, making me your nearest neighbour.  Welcome to Grimpen, Lord Saughton."  
  
John put his hat back on his head and shook Vandeleur's hand.  "Thank you.  I've just been taking in the sights."  
  
Vandeleur turned and looked out over the moor, a fond look on his face.  "Beautiful, isn't it? I never tire of the moor. You cannot think of the wonderful secrets it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious.”  
  
John thought it rather bleak but said, politely, "You know it very well, then?"  
  
"In a modest way," Vandeleur replied.  "I imagine that it would take a lifetime to know the moors well and I have only lived here a little over a year.  But my interests have led me to explore it rather thoroughly, so I dare say I know it better than most  A false step means death for man or beast - which is why you should keep a closer eye on Fluffy, Beryl."  
  
Mrs. Stapleton looked uneasy saying only, "I will try.  Excuse me, gentlemen; my daughter is waiting to have her lessons so I must return home.  Lord Saughton, I believe that you are to dine this evening?"  
  
"We are, indeed."  
  
"Then I will take my leave of you till then."  With a little nod, Beryl Stapleton turned and made her way swiftly back up the path in the direction John had come from.  
  
"Are you heading back to Baskerville Hall?" Vandeleur asked John and, at his affirmative, added, "Then I will walk with you for a bit."    
  
As they walked, he talked about the moor in enthusiastic tones, describing the people who had once dwelt there and some of his own discoveries.  Before long, they came to a point where the road split with the main path continuing inland while the new path seemed to run along the edge of the moor. To the left the ground fell away rather sharply, and John could see a narrow trail wending down through the ferns and brambles, then up through a thicket on the other side of the little hollow.    
  
"A moderate walk along this path brings you to Merripit House," Vandeleur said, gesturing towards the new path along the moor.  "I would invite you for a drink but I'm not presentable at the moment," he said, gesturing towards his muddy boots.  
  
"I could not possibly presume to disrupt your morning," John said quickly.  "Sir Henry and my husband will be wondering where I have got to by now."  
  
"Then you are married?" Vandeleur said, and John thought he could detect a hint of relief in his voice.  He wondered if Henry had some competition for the lovely Beryl Stapleton.  
  
John nodded.  "Yes, four months now.  Perhaps I shall have the opportunity to present Lord Sherlock to you at another time."  
  
"I would be delighted," Vandeleur replied.  "You have plans tonight I heard - perhaps tomorrow evening you and your party will break bread with me?  I cannot promise the sort of fare you will have tonight, as there is no lady in residence, but I warrant that you won't starve."  
  
John accepted on behalf of his party, then took another look around him.  "Baskerville Hall lies in this direction?" he asked, pointing towards the wider path leading inland.  "What is in that direction?" he asked, pointing to the broken path leading through the hollow and the thicket beyond.  
  
"Ah, that is Devil's Hollow!" Vandeleur said.  "I advise against a walk in that direction, Lord Saughton.  You will have heard the legends?"  
  
John nodded.  "I am surprised that a man of science like yourself would lend any credence to those tales."  
  
"I wouldn't, my lord, but then I have heard the hound," Vandeleur said simply.  "I have heard it baying on the moors at night, searching for souls to claim."  
  
John repressed a shiver as Vandeleur bade him farewell and strode along the path leading down to Merripit House and the moors.  John stood for a moment, watching him, then turned to look back in the direction Mrs. Stapleton had taken.  There had been something strange about that encounter, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.   
  
John turned and stared down the path that led to Devil's Hollow.  He could feel a prickle at the back of his neck, as if something was watching him from within its tangled depths.  There was something else, something he couldn't name, but it disturbed him at the same time that it intrigued him.  It was with great reluctance that he turned his back on that dark path to continue his journey to Baskerville Hall.

* * *

 

By the time he returned to Baskerville Hall, the morning was over.  John found a cold repast laid out for luncheon and helped himself to the broken meats and cheeses, then went in search of the rest of the household.  He found them in the main salon on the first floor, where Henry appeared to be going over book-keeping records while Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, smoking his pipe.  
  
"Ah, John, there you are!" Sherlock said genially as he entered the room.  John could feel him quickly appraising his attire so he wasn't surprised to hear Sherlock say, "You have been making friends with the neighbours, I see."  
  
"With the neighbour's dog, at any rate," John said, looking ruefully down at his boots which bore the marks from Fluffy's paws.  
  
"Hand them over to Wiggins - he's a genius at treating such damages."  Sherlock rubbed his hands together in anticipation.  "Now.  Have a seat and tell me everything that transpired."  
  
John did just that.  Four month's experience had trained him to give a detailed report to the detective, composed of just the sorts of details Sherlock preferred.  It was not unlike his years as an intern, he thought, giving a report to the senior surgeon during Rounds.  Sherlock seemed particularly interested in Vandeleur's appearance and of Mrs. Stapleton's odd words.  Henry put down his pencil to listen, and he seemed particularly pleased by the woman's concern for him, although he frowned at her insistence that he leave.  
  
"As if I would push off and leave her in the lurch!" Henry said indignantly.    
  
"I don't think she meant anything insulting by it," John reassured him.  "When you care about someone, it can be hard to face the thought of them being in danger."  
  
Henry glowed at the indication that John thought Beryl cared about him and then, with an exclamation about the time, hurried off so that he might bathe and be shaved before they left for Lafter Hall.    
  
Once they were alone, John turned towards his husband who was once more pacing.  "Sherlock." he began, then halted, unsure how to express himself.  
  
"Hmm?" Sherlock paused in his pacing and looked over at John, then rolled his eyes.  "You are about to apologize for your behaviour last evening.  Tedious.  And unnecessary.  I took no offence."  
  
"Good."  John paused, then said, "There's something odd, isn't there?  About Vandeleur's behaviour?  I had the feeling that he sees himself as a rival for Mrs. Stapleton's hand and would do anything to put a spoke in Sir Henry's wheel."  
  
"Including summoning a Demon Hound from Hell to spirit away his rival?" Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow.  "Really, John - you have been borrowing too many novels from the library.  This is not one of Mrs. Radcliffe's tales of brooding Alphas rescuing wilting Omegas from the clutches of supernatural villains."  
  
John grinned, not in the least embarrassed at having his secret vice revealed.  "Ah, but the villains are rarely supernatural in the end, just clever and evil men."  
  
"Villains usually are," Sherlock agreed, unexpectedly sober.  "And I expect that we'll find the same in this case."  
  
Reflecting on this, John went upstairs to hunt out clothes for the evening and to entrust his boots to Wiggins' care.  But he had an unsettling feeling that there was something unspeakably evil lurking around, and not just at Devil's Hollow.

* * *

As Dr. Mortimer insisted they take the carriage to Lafter Hall, they arrived in good time, although Sherlock was disappointed not to be afforded an opportunity to look at the Devil's Hollow along the moor pathway.  A maid met them at the door and showed them up to the parlour where Mrs Stapleton and two others waited for them.  One was a man of about sixty years, of a choleric appearance, and the other was a young girl, about eight.  Mrs Stapleton introduced the first as her grandfather and the other as her daughter.  
  
Once they'd all been introduced, Miss Kirsten Stapleton immediately walked up to Sherlock and looked up at him forthrightly.  "Lord Sherlock, are you here about my rabbit, Bluebell?"  
  
Sherlock looked down at her very solemnly.  "I am, indeed, and I require that you disclose all the pertinent facts of the case.  I would also like to review the scene of the crime.  May we call upon you tomorrow morning?"  
  
"You may," Kirsten replied, equally solemn, and then she was claimed by her nanny and, after a protesting look to her mother, went off to the nursery for her tea.    
  
The rest of the assembled group proceeded to the dining room where John and Dr. Mortimer were seated at the right and left hand of Mr. Frankland, while Henry and Sherlock were similarly seated beside Mrs. Stapleton.  Shortly into their meal, John began to envy Sherlock his placement, for Mr. Frankland was as choleric in disposition as appearance.  He talked of little else but litigation - the ones he had active as well as the ones he had won.  There seemed to be little logic to his lawsuits, save that they dealt with customary rights and privileges, both his own and those of the inhabitants of Grimpen.  By happy chance, during a pause in the conversation necessitated by the removal of the first course, John mentioned seeing the telescope on the roof during his morning walk. It happened that amateur astronomy was Frankland's other passion, and he was delighted to expound upon the subject.  
  
At the other end of the table, John observed Sherlock taking the measure of Mrs. Stapleton while Henry occupied most of her conversation.  It was very clear that Henry was as infatuated with the young woman as he'd seemed when they'd talked about her on the journey.  What was equally clear was that she was fond of him, for although she was a gracious hostess and maintained a placid countenance, when she glanced in Henry's direction, her eyes softened a bit.  There was also a slight upturn to her lips as he spoke, and she inclined her head in his direction quite unconsciously when listening to any conversation.  
  
It was equally clear that Mr. Frankland was not happy about the situation, and one could hardly blame him.  His granddaughter was still a married woman in the eyes of Law and Church, even if abandoned.  For her to entertain the attentions of a young man, no matter how honourable his intent, was to court scandal, and she'd already caused enough of that by eloping.    
  
What was surprising, however, was that Mr. Frankland was displeased with the Baskervilles in general, both Sir Charles and Sir Henry.  Not for the family reputation, but over Merripit House, and he was more than happy to rant about it.  The house had apparently been leased to the Stapeltons _in perpetuity_ by the Baskerville's and that Mr. Frankland considered it his granddaughter's rightful property.  For Sir Charles to lease it to a stranger, and not even give the money from the rent to Beryl, seemed to infuriate him so much that he was barely able to speak the man's name.  Mortimer pointed out that Sir Henry had offered the rental income to Mrs. Stapleton but that she refused to accept it.  John stored away this information to tell Sherlock later, in case the other man was too involved with his own conversation to have heard.  
  
Just as they were finishing dinner, the maid handed a note to Dr. Mortimer.  He read it with a frown.  
  
"I must go.  It appears that Mrs. Applegate is having a difficult labour and the midwife needs my assistance."  
  
"Anything that I can help with?" John asked.  
  
Mortimer shook his head.  "I will need the carriage- the Applegate's farm is on the other side of Grimpen."  Left unspoken was his request that John see Henry safely home; John gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement.  
  
After dinner, the party except for Mortimer returned to the salon but the conversation was sporadic and uncomfortable.  Frankland addressed his remarks to John or Sherlock, glowering at Sir Henry and ignoring his granddaughter.  John's thoughts were two: he could understand why Beryl had eloped, and he wished he could think of a polite way to end this evening.  Given that Sir Henry was mooning over Beryl, John didn't think any help was coming from _that_ quarter.  
  
It was Mrs. Stapleton who paved the way, however, as she excused herself with an apology, telling them that it was her custom to read to her daughter at bedtime every evening.  After that, even Henry was willing to draw the evening to a conclusion.

* * *

 

Night had fallen by the time they left Lafter Hall and John was grateful for the lanterns that Frankland's servants gave them to light their way home.  He turned to the carriage road, only to find that Sherlock was striding eagerly towards the moor-side pathway.  
  
"Sherlock!" he called, hurrying after him.  "What are you - where are you going?"  
  
"This is our opportunity to observe where Sir Charles met his end and where Sir Henry had his encounter."  Sherlock turned to Henry.  "Do you recall the precise location of the encounter?"  
  
"I'm not likely to forget," Henry said tartly.    
  
He set off down the path, lantern held high.  John could see the bravado in his manner, and while he admired Henry's  determination to put his fears to rest, he couldn't help but think that both of the younger men were idiots.  
  
"Wouldn't it be better to explore the area in daylight?" he protested.  "We can hardly see in this darkness - and the mist is coming in."  
  
Which, John was alarmed to see, was concealing his ability to see the two younger men.  He hurried after but by the time he reached the turn-off for Merripit House, he had lost all sight of them.  He raised his lantern to light the path towards Baskerville Hall, but it was too much to hope for that they'd gone that way.  He turned towards the trail to Devil's Hollow, lowering the lantern to try to catch any footprints in the grass but couldn't make out anything.  
  
"Sherlock!" he called out.  "Sir Henry!  Where are you?"  
  
Cautiously, he took a few steps along the faint trail, holding up the lantern and listening for the sounds of the other men.   The area was quiet, ominously so.  John thought he heard some kind of noise in the bushes and turned toward them, shining the light in that direction.  There was nothing there, nothing except the hair-raising feeling along the back of his neck that told him _something_ was there, that _something_ was watching him.  But as he turned around to look for whatever it was, he caught sight of a light on a hilltop in the deep of the moor, where no one in their right mind would be at this hour.  _Vandeleur_ , he thought, although the man must be mad to be out on the moor in the dark and fog. 

As John stood there watching, the light moved up and down, as if someone was signalling.  John looked around, trying to see if there was anyone within sight who might be communicating to the person out on the moor, but the fog was settling in thick now and he couldn't see a trace of a signal.   
  
Experimentally, he raised his lantern in a similar pattern.  The distant light did the same and then, abruptly, went out.  John frowned, puzzled by these actions, but then forgot all about that mystery a moment later, for across the moor came a strange cry - no, more of a moan with a hint of a growl at the end of it.  It rose through the still night, echoing over the moor, a howl that could set a man's bones to jelly.  John found himself growling in response, a primal Alpha response to a threat, which so shocked him that it broke him out of the trance he'd fallen into.    
  
"Sherlock!" he shouted again.  "Sir Henry!  Where in bloody hell - "  
  
There was a scream from further down the path, from the depth of that dark valley.  John swore and plunged forward, nearly running in his effort to find the two men.  The mist was lifting from over the Hollow but the sense of danger increased with every step he took, and John desperately wished that he'd thought to bring his revolver with him that evening.  His anger grew along with his fear and once again he felt himself growling.  
  
"Sherlock!  Answer me, dammit!  Where are you?"  
  
There was no response for a moment, and then there was another cry from Henry, much closer this time.   A moment later, Henry came racing up the hillside, his lantern swinging wildly in his hand, terror on his face.  Close behind him was Sherlock, also running as if his life depended on it, the expression on his face as blank as a slate although there was a whiteness about his lips that John had never seen before.  
  
"Thank Christ," John muttered, feeling his hackles ease at the sight of the two men, unharmed.  "Did you hear that?"  
  
Henry reached John first.  "We saw it!" he stammered, "We saw it!"  
  
John looked towards Sherlock as he reached them but his husband refused to meet his eyes, storming past the two of them.  By the time John got Henry to the main path, Sherlock had disappeared once again.  He hoped that Sherlock had the sense to head towards the Hall but he was fully occupied in shepherding Henry in that direction.  The younger man was visibly shaken, babbling about the beast's red eyes and enormous size, working himself up with every step so that by the time they reached the Hall, Henry was in a state of utter nervous collapse.    
  
There was no sight of Sherlock anywhere, although Barrymore reassured John that His Lordship had passed through just a few minutes earlier, calling for a hot water in his room.  Relieved - and knowing that Sherlock would want privacy for a bit - he had Barrymore escort Sir Henry to his private sitting room while he rifled Dr. Mortimer's room for a sedative potion.  He found one, along with several books about the legends of Dartmoor that made John frown as an unpleasant thought occurred to him.  Ignoring that for now, he crossed the hall to Henry's rooms and administered the sedative to the young man.  Within a short period of time, he was pleased to see the Henry's high colour and agitated manner begin to recede.  His pulse was also returning to a more normal rhythm, too, and by the time Dr. Mortimer rushed into the room, John was able to report that Henry was in a much better frame.  
  
Henry's head lolled against the back of his chair as he turned to greet his step-father, and the look on his face was more peaceful than John had seen so far.  "I'm not going mad," he reported solemnly to Mortimer.  "Sherlock saw it, too.  Sherlock saw it."  He closed his eyes with a sigh and slipped into a light doze.  
  
"Well, that's something," Mortimer murmured.  "Whatever possessed them..."  
  
"I know," John said grimly.  "I will be speaking with Sherlock about this shortly."  He started toward the door and then paused, turning back.  "Oh, how was your call?  Was the woman safely delivered?"  
  
"What?" Mortimer said, plainly distracted as he stared at his step-son while he dozed.  "Oh!  Yes,"  He turned back toward John.  "I mean, no.  There must have been some mistake.  When I arrived at the Applegates I found that she was not yet in labour - not due for another two weeks, it seems."  
  
John frowned, his sense of unease growing, but bid the other man good-night and climbed the stairs to his own set of rooms.

* * *

 

He knocked discreetly on the door which was opened by Wiggins, bearing a basin of water in his hands.  
  
"He's in a right state, he is," Wiggins muttered to him as they exchanged places.  "Good luck, me lord."  
  
John nodded in reply and closed the door behind Wiggins, then turned to face the interior of the room.  He could see that a large fire had been built up and the room seemed overly warm to John, but Sherlock didn't appear to notice.  He was sitting in a large armchair before the fire, his hands folded in a prayer-like position before his face as he stared into the fire's depth, apparently lost in thought.  John could see Sherlock's face in the flickering firelight, could see the shock and disbelief written over his features.    
  
"Sherlock," he said, his irritation warring with relief that Sherlock was here, safe.  
  
Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath through his nose and then blew it out, sounding shaky.  "Henry's right," he said.  He glanced at John nervously before returning his attention to the fire.  "I saw it."  
  
John frowned slightly.  "Saw what?"  He hadn't seen anything, just heard that unearthly howling, although he'd been keenly aware of _something_ watching him.  
  
"The Hound.  Out there in the hollow."  Sherlock swallowed hard.  "A gigantic Hell Hound." 

He raised his eyes to John's, finally, and John was shocked to see them filled with self-loathing as well as fear.  Stunned, John sat down abruptly on the end the bed.    
  
"You aren't serious, are you?" John blurted out.  "A large dog, maybe, but a Hell Hound?"  Sherlock drew in another shaky breath and John re-evaluated, wondering if he should obtain a sedative for him as well.  "Let's be rational about this, stick to the facts."  
  
Softly, Sherlock said, "Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains - however improbably - must be true."  
  
"Sherlock," John said, helplessly, concerned by the sight of his husband falling apart before his eyes.  
  
"Look at me, John!" Sherlock said sharply, turning to glare at John, clearly rejecting pity.  "I've always been able to keep myself apart, distance myself from feelings, but look at me now!"  
  
Soothingly, reassuringly, John said, "Look, it was dark and scary out there, and there was that bloody terrifying howling,   Not surprising that you're a little...."  
  
"What?" snapped Sherlock.  "There's nothing wrong with me!"  
  
"Of course not," John agreed.  
  
"Don't patronize me!  I am fine!  Do you want me to prove it?"  Sherlock's eyes raked over him, taking in every detail, before he opened his mouth.  
  
"Don't!" John said sharply.  "Whatever you've deduced about me - not tonight, all right?  Let's just concentrate on this case, on the _facts_."  
  
"Right." Sherlock snorted disdainfully.  "We're looking for a dog, yes?  A great big dog.  _Cherchez le chien_.   Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?  Go knocking on doors, asking the villagers if they perhaps have a large dog they've let loose to run the moors?  That's your brilliant idea, is it?"  
  
"Sherlock, for God's sake!"  John sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand, resigned.  "But why would you listen to me?  I'm just your husband and friend."  
  
Savagely, Sherlock said, "I don't have friends!"  
  
John drew in a shocked breath, surprised by how much that hurt, even after the awful chasm that had opened between them over the past week.   Painfully, he said, "No.  I wonder why?"  Then he got up and left the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality.

* * *

John's only thought as he hurried down the stairs toward the ground floor was that he wanted _out_ , that he would grab a lantern and light it and _just go_ , although he had no idea where he was going, just that it was _out_ and _away_.  He had almost reached the front door when a faint sound from the parlour caught his attention.  He wasn't certain what it was, but all of his senses seemed to be on alert still, each sound and scent magnified, and he knew that someone was in that darkened room.  He grabbed up a brace of candlesticks from the entry table and entered the parlour, candles held high.  
  
Beryl Stapleton was sitting in a chair in the darkened room, a tiny handkerchief clutched in her hand.  It was clear that she had been crying for some time.  She gave a little cry of alarm as he entered, then pressed the handkerchief against her lips to stifle the sound.  
  
John set down the candlestick.  "Mrs Stapleton, what has upset you?  Is there anything I can do to help?"  
  
She uttered a sob even as she tried to smile.  It came out tremulous through her tears, and John was beside her in an instant, offering her his larger handkerchief.  
  
"What is wrong?" he asked gently.    
  
She shook her head in negation.  "It's nothing - I am a bit over-set - I heard - the - the threat to Sir Henry..."  
  
John doubted that any of those were the real cause of her distress and guessed that she had been admitted into the young man's presence and that what she had seen had upset her.  He wondered at Dr. Mortimer's sense, given how much he appeared to approve of the match, but perhaps he had thought that his potential daughter-in-law should know the worst of her intended's failings.  He hadn't thought Beryl Stapleton to be one so overdone by another's sensibilities, had thought her practical manner a good balance to Sir Henry's more fanciful nature, but perhaps it had been too much.  
  
Or perhaps she also believed in this hound, however unlikely.  It was beginning to appear that he was the only one with doubts.  
  
"Sir Henry has had a fright, to be sure," he said reassuringly.  "But he has been given a sedative draught and will feel much more the thing in the morning.  You needn't worry."  
  
She nodded.  "When I heard that he'd taken the moor path - I had my horse saddled and rode here immediately.  And then I learned what had happened..."  
  
"You rode here, alone, in the dark?" John asked, frowning.  
  
She gave him a reassuring look and rallied a bit.  "I am not a delicate Omega, Lord Saughton.  I have lived here most of my life and I know the roads well, even in the dark.   I took the carriage road.  There was no danger to _me_."  
  
"But you feared there would be danger to Sir Henry, or you wouldn't have been so over-set," John hazarded.  
  
"I feared..." Beryl's voice faltered and she twisted the handkerchief in her hands.  She drew in a deep breath.  "It's my fault, Lord Saughton.  Sir Charles' death."  
  
John frowned.  "How could you possibly be at fault for Sir Charles' death?"  
  
"If not for me, he wouldn't have been walking the moor path that night," she said bitterly.  "He was so cautious in general, so careful!  But he had news that he couldn't wait to impart to me..."  She covered her face with her hands.  
  
"News?" he asked gently.  
  
She nodded, her face still hidden.  "He was assisting me in obtaining a divorce from my husband.  He had laid the case before his lawyer a few months earlier, to see if anything could be done.  His lawyer had just written that he had obtained a preliminary court date, and that he was cautiously optimistic."  She drew in a deep breath and lowered her hands, and John could see that her eyes were bright with new tears.  "He was so kind!  So generous!  The case will be quite expensive - more than I could afford! - but he wouldn't hear a word against letting him pay the costs.  He came with the news and lingered over the details too long.  I wanted to send him home in the carriage but Grandfather refused."  She gave John a sideways, apologetic look.  "You heard at dinner.  Grandfather disliked Sir Charles, thought he'd come back to Grimpen to play the Great Lord."  
  
"Mr. Frankland does seem...unhappy with the Baskervilles," John said carefully.  "But - Mrs. Stapleton, what happened could not be construed as your fault by any means.  Any more than what happened _tonight_ was your responsibility."  
  
"You are kind to say so," Beryl said, although the tone of her voice told him that she thought otherwise.  She rose to her feet.  "I must go home.  Grandfather will be worried.  Thank you, Lord Saughton.  You have been very kind."  
  
She held out the handkerchief and John tucked it into his coat pocket.  "You are not riding back to Lafter Hall alone, are you?"  
  
Beryl smiled faintly.  "Dr. Mortimer has alerted a groom to be ready to ride with me.  You need not worry."  
  
"I will walk with you to the stables at least," John insisted and she accepted, taking the arm that he extended to her.  "Mrs. Stapleton, you said that you feared for Sir Henry - that's why you rode here.  Why are you afraid for him?  You don't believe in this Hell Hound, do you?"  
  
"I believe in evil.  Does it really matter what form it takes?"  And the sincerity in her voice left John in no doubt that she was serious.    
  
The groom was ready to accompany her and he came forward to assist her in mounting her horse.  John watched as she was thrown into the saddle and settled her skirts, then she extended her hand to him in farewell.  
  
"Thank you for your kindness tonight, Lord Saughton.  We will see you tomorrow morning?"  
  
"I believe so," John replied, then added, "although we will send word if we cannot keep our appointment with Miss Stapleton.  Lord Sherlock was...similarly over-set by what occurred tonight."  
  
"Then you are doubly kind, to have taken time with me when you must be longing to go to his side and reassure him."  John knew that he made a bit of a face for she laughed softly.  "Bit your head off, did he?  I wouldn't take it to heart, my lord.  In my experience, those in stressful situations often say things they don't mean.  I would expect that Lord Sherlock would take the shock to his mind and nerves badly."  
  
_I am a bloody idiot,_ John thought privately, but out loud he thanked her before bidding farewell.  He watched her ride off, the groom a respectful distance behind, and then turned back to the Hall, all thoughts about _out and away_ forgotten.

* * *

 

"John?"  
  
John had just opened the door to their rooms and he paused in the doorway. peering inside.  The only light other than the candle in his hand was from the fire which had burned down to mere embers during his absence, and it appeared that Sherlock hadn't moved from the chair.  If he had even noticed that John had left.  (Once, John had been gone to the House of Lords all day and had come home to find Sherlock talking to him as if he'd been there the entire time.  He suspected that wasn't the first occasion.)     
  
"Who else would be entering our room at this hour?" John said, trying for lightness in his voice. Sherlock's voice had sounded uncharacteristically tremulous and shaken, and John cursed himself for an idiot.  In his ire, he had forgotten that Sherlock had experienced a severe fright and shouldn't have been left alone.  
  
"I thought...I didn't think you would come back."    
  
His voice was low and John had to strain to hear it.  He closed the door and stepped into the room, setting the candlestick down on the night table.  "Of course I came back.  Idiot.  I just needed to step away for a bit."  _Before I said something that I would regret._  
  
"I apologize." The words sounded painful, and John knew how Sherlock's pride must be smarting, having to say them.  "I know that I have been acting irrationally and in a manner I cannot even explain - "  
  
"It's fine - "  
  
"Please, let me finish."  There was a long pause and then Sherlock said, haltingly, "What happened tonight ... Something happened to me, something I’ve not really experienced before..."  
  
"You were afraid," John said quietly, drawing closer to the fire, close enough to see Sherlock shake his head in reply.  
  
"No.  I've been afraid before now, but earlier - I was terrified.  And more than that.  I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, but tonight..."  
  
He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.  "I'm  sorry.  I've disappointed you."  
  
"Of course not!" John said, feeling the need to reassure the normally cocky man.  He reached out to take Sherlock's hand in his and found it feverishly warm - not surprising, as he'd been nearly sitting in the fire earlier.  "If I'd seen what you saw, I'd be bloody _terrified_.  And need a change of smalls."  
  
Sherlock smiled faintly but then his face fell back into that melancholy look.  "This wasn't the only time I've disappointed you lately."  
  
John frowned.  "When have you ever - "  
  
"The Adler matter," Sherlock said baldly.  "I allowed her to steal back the letters, right there on the street."  
  
"You hardly allowed... Wait."  John had a sudden epiphany, as clear as day.  "Is that what's been bothering you all this past week?"  He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when he solved a case and was so staggered that he sat down abruptly on the hearth.  
  
"Yes, of course it was," Sherlock said, giving him the impatient frown that John knew meant "you idiot" was implied.  "What did you _think_ it was?  And why are you sitting there?  You'll scorch your coat."  
  
"Damn my coat!" John said roundly.  "I thought - I was afraid that you'd fallen in love with Irene Adler," he admitted.  "Or, at the least, envied her freedom."  
  
"In love?  With Miss Adler?" Sherlock retorted, looking at John as if he'd taken leave of his senses.  "What a ridiculous idea!  I admire her ingenuity, it is true, and her determination, but that is all.  As for freedom..."  He scowled at John and shook his head.  "She is considerably less free than I - hunted and harried on all sides.  Only her quick wits have kept her alive this long.  My life with you has had _infinitely_ more advantages."  
  
John felt a bit dazed by this admission and warmed to the core.  He knew that he was grinning a bit foolishly but he said, "It has?"  
  
"Absolutely."  Sherlock hesitated then said, frankly, "As a matter of fact, I fail to see why she pursues the course of action she does."  
  
John blinked.  "What actions?"  
  
"Her numerous affairs," Sherlock said impatiently.  "Do keep up, John!"  
  
John was so relieved to hear this familiar chastisement that he grinned at Sherlock.  "Sorry.  So - you don't understand why she has taken lovers as she has?"  
  
"Exactly.  She has talent; her voice is the Toast of many an opera house.  She could have fame, fortune, her Work.  A comfortable retirement when she leaves the stage.  Why waste herself flitting from one imprudent love affair to another?"  
  
John flushed a bit - or maybe it was the heat from the fireplace.  He cleared his throat, trying not to think about his own love affairs, prudent or not.  "Er - well - sometimes it just...happens.  Falling in love.  And sometimes it's just...something that a person needs.  An itch to be scratched, so to speak."  
  
Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook his head in frustration.  "It's incomprehensible to me."  
  
John couldn't help grinning at that; it was such a Sherlock thing to say.  "I suppose it is."  Relieved that they seemed to be back on comfortable terms, John rose to his feet and stretched.  "Well, I don't know about you, but I've had enough excitement for one night.  I think I'll go to bed."

He had just opened the door to the dressing room, candle in his hand, when he heard Sherlock call his name.  He looked back inquiringly and was surprised to see the uncertain look on Sherlock's face again.  
  
"Would you..."  Sherlock cleared his throat.  "I find that I am still feeling...unsettled.  Would you...that is, I don't wish to impose but..."  His voice trailed off and he looked away.    
  
John reflected on his words for a moment.  " _Oh_.  Would you like me to sleep in here tonight?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said quickly, looking back at him with relief clear on his face.  "You may have the bed; this chair is quite adequate for my needs."  
  
John hazarded that Sherlock hadn't slept the past night and knew he hadn't slept the night before that at the inn.  He glanced at the bed.  "No need for that.  The bed is large enough for both of us.  It'll be like that night on the way to Scotland."  He waited for Sherlock's nod of agreement.  "It won't take me long to change into my nightshirt."  
  
When he came out in his nightshirt and dressing gown, the fire had been banked and Sherlock was in bed, his back turned toward the door.  John was pleased that Sherlock had remembered that John preferred the side facing the door.  He shed his dressing gown and slipped under the covers, turning his back to his husband.  
  
"Good night, Sherlock," he said, quietly, in case the other man was asleep.  
  
"Good night, John," came the reply and he could sense as Sherlock relaxed, dropping almost immediately into sleep.  
  
John smiled and leaned over to blow out the candle, then closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

 


	32. Part III: Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John continue to investigate the strange case of Sir Henry Baskerville, making a few personal discoveries along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to both Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to Sherlock BBC for parts of the dialogue and much of the plot, although it has my own spin for plot purposes. Dialogue from Sherlock BBC is courtesy of [Ariane DeVere's transcripts. ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/28352.html)
> 
> A more detailed (and porny) version of the first scene in this chapter has been posted to "Three Continent's Watson" now. You can find it here: [Chapter 5](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2330933/chapters/8144169)

John woke in the middle of the night, blinking his eyes in the nearly total darkness, alert but unsure of what had awakened him.  A noise in the corridors or on the moors?  If so, all was silence now.  And yet, he felt a keen awareness of his surroundings, with all his protective instincts on alert.  _Perhaps Sherlock has had a bad dream_ , he thought - not surprising, considering the evening's events.  He turned his head and saw that Sherlock was indeed awake, lying on his side facing him.  
  
"Sherlock?  Are you all right?  Did you have a nightmare?"  
  
"You talked with Beryl Stapleton earlier this evening."  
  
John frowned at that non-sequitur, then recalled what he had meant to tell Sherlock earlier before being side-tracked by Sherlock's apology.  "Right.  Sorry.  I meant to tell you - "  
  
"She came to inquire after Sir Henry - odd that she knew what had happened so soon."  
  
John groaned and ran his hand over his face.  "It's a bit late at night to play deductions, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock ignored that.  "You offered a few words of comfort and your handkerchief."  
  
His voice sounded odd to John's ears, a bit hoarse and deeper than usual.  John wondered if something in the Hollow, an insect bite or a deadly plant, had made Sherlock ill.  He needed light so that he could see more of Sherlock's face than shadows.  
  
"One moment, Sherlock," he said, turning to the bedside table where he had left the candlestick.  He struck a lucifer and lit the candle, then turned back to Sherlock.  "Are you feeling well?" he asked.  "Pains anywhere?  Sore throat?"  He laid his hand on Sherlock's forehead.  "You're a trifle warm but nothing of significance."  
  
"I am not unwell," Sherlock said, impatiently brushing away John's hand.  " _You touched her_."  There was a hint of a growl at the end, a definite possessive sound, and John sat up and gaped at his husband.  
  
"I only touched her hand!" he protested.    
  
"I am aware of that.  She was in distress and you took her hand, to offer comfort.  Alpha-instinct.  Omegas instinctively relax at an Alpha's touch."    
  
John knew that;  of course he did.  It had been covered in his basic Omega biology classes in medical school.  He'd learned about how an Omega's scent markers mixed with their perspiration and clung to the skin of an Alpha, a primitive method of marking the Alpha who had shared their heat.  It was the reason why Omegas still went gloved in company, to avoid leaving accidental scent markers.  An Alphas's saliva on an Omega's skin had the same purpose, a primitive "hands off" notice to other Alphas.  Even now, when an Alpha bowed over an Omega's gloved hand and kissed the back of it, they were reflecting the age-old custom of claiming a mate by scent.  John knew this but he had completely forgotten when he'd taken Beryl's bare hand in his.  Of course, he'd only had dealings with Betas and Alphas in the past, neither of which would leave a scent on him, but he should have remembered.  
  
"Her bare hand, John," Sherlock snapped.  "Of course I can't sleep.  My bed stinks of another Omega!"  
  
"I am so sorry - I didn't think," he apologised, turning and swinging his legs over the side.  "I'll sleep in the dressing room - "  
  
" _No_."  John was stopped by Sherlock's hand on his shoulder and he turned to look at his husband as he continued speaking.  "I know that it was unintentional on both your parts.  Beryl Stapleton has clearly made her choice and you would not dishonour your vows to me _or_ your promise to my brother."  Sherlock paused, then added in a firm tone of voice, " _I know you_ , John."  
  
John's eyes met Sherlock's.  "Yes, you do.  Better than anyone, ever."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "And you know me.  When I said earlier that I had no friends, what I really meant was that I have only _one_.  You don't know how important that is to me."  
  
John was touched and took Sherlock's hand in his, this time a deliberate choice, letting Sherlock's scent markers overlay the earlier ones.  "To me as well."  
  
Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's face, reading him easily as always.  There was an odd look on his face, one John had only seen before when Sherlock had been confronted with an entirely new sort of information.  He wondered if Sherlock had made a break-through in the case and if he was at the point of sharing it.   
  
"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked quietly, so as not to disturb his thought processes.    
  
"I was thinking about what I said earlier, about Miss Adler," Sherlock said, in equally low tones.  That was the last thing John had expected, but before he could let go of Sherlock's hand and roll over in a huff, Sherlock continued.  "It occurred to me that I was committing the folly of making judgements in absence of facts."    
  
Sherlock proceeded to explain the flaw in his reasoning, which included something about first-hand experience, but it was late and John's brain was having trouble following.  "What are you talking about?" he asked.  
  
"I am saying that I wish to make a claim of my own."  Sherlock tugged at John's hand, pulling him back into the centre of the bed.  "I believe that it is time for us to consummate our marriage, John."  
  
And, after receiving assurances that Sherlock was in earnest, and finding no fault with the idea, John was more than happy to assist in this endeavour.

* * *

 

John awoke slowly in the morning and was gradually aware of three things: he was naked, he felt marvellous, and the other side of the bed was empty.  
  
The first was easily remedied for his nightshirt and dressing gown were laid across the end of the bed within easy reach.  The second didn't require fixing, although he thought that he should try to suppress the smug expression that he was sure he was wearing.  The third was more problematic as it could indicate morning-after trouble - or merely that Sherlock had awakened early and gone about his usual business.  He decided that he wouldn't speculate on Sherlock's absence, preferring to bask for a little longer in the satisfaction of a well-spent night.  
  
John got out of bed and pulled on his nightshirt and dressing gown, then poured water from the pitcher into the wash basin to freshen up.  He was just debating whether to ring for tea or to dress and go down to breakfast when the bedroom door swung open and Sherlock entered.  He had a tray balanced precariously on one hand and John hurried to hold the door for him.  Sherlock set the tray down on the small table before the fireplace and turned to smile at him.  
  
"Good morning, John," Sherlock said with no sign of discomfort or blush for the previous night.  "Dr. Mortimer sent word that Sir Henry is much recovered but he is breakfasting in his room, so I thought we would do the same and compare our findings."  
  
Sherlock settled into the armchair, which he had apparently claimed as his own, crossing one buckskin-clad leg over the other.  John noted that Sherlock was dressed in casual country clothes, buckskin trousers with a long leather waistcoat, a plain shirt, and a simple cravat.  He wore his dressing gown in place of a coat but it was clear that Sherlock was ready for a new day of investigation.  John felt distinctly under-dressed in comparison and thought about retreating to the dressing room to change, but he knew that Sherlock would start talking whether he was in the room or not and he didn't want to miss his deductions.  So he opted for breakfast instead, lifting the cover on the plate to find his favourite breakfast foods.  He glanced at Sherlock in surprise and saw that he was pouring out tea, adding milk before passing it to John.  John accepted it, wondering if he was dreaming now, or possibly had dreamt the whole night.  
  
"No, you are not dreaming," Sherlock said, pouring his own tea and adding a generous amount of sugar to it.  "We were indeed intimate last night.  It was both enjoyable and informative.  While I will not be engaging in such activity on a regular basis, it was intriguing enough to make me look forward to my upcoming heat."  
  
John tried unsuccessfully to control his blush, stirring his tea with more vigour than needed.  "And, um, when would that be?"  He had never felt that he could inquire about such an intimate subject, but as Sherlock had opened the topic, he felt that he could ask.  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "August or September.  Mine are generally nine months apart and my last was in December, although I'm told that can change with exposure to other Omegas or non-family Alphas."  
  
John nodded, choosing to address his plate instead of replying. They would be in Saughton then, as most of fashionable London retreated to the country in August for the hunting.  There was no guarantee that Sherlock would become pregnant during their first heat together, of course, but it was possible that in a year or so he could be a father.  The thought was a little disquieting.    
  
John turned his thoughts away from that subject, recalling the information he had for Sherlock.  "There is something I just recalled. Dr. Mortimer has several books on the local legends on the table in his rooms.  And last night he told me that the message that drew him and the carriage away was false.  Could he have produced it to ensure that we had to proceed on foot?  Could _he_ be behind these events?"  
  
"I don't see how he could have had a hand in Sir Charles' death as he was in South Africa at the time," Sherlock pointed out.    
  
"Unless he has a confederate here, although what would he gain?"  
  
"I suspect we would find the answer to that in Sir Charles' will," Sherlock replied.  "There is a copy in Henry's study, which I will look at today.  And knowing the affection that Henry holds for his stepfather, I suspect he has made generous provisions for Mortimer.  Many dark deeds have been performed for financial gain."  
  
"Do _you_ think this is a spectral hound, or is it the sinister design of a man?"  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  "I don't know.  Last night, I was utterly convinced that the hound was real and demonic.  Today, my intellect tells me this must be false.  And you saw nothing?"  
  
"No," John said, "although I didn't go as far into the Hollow as you or Henry.  But I heard something - the cries of a dog, it seemed.  And I saw something - a light on one of the Tors within Grimpen Mire."  
  
"You are certain?" Sherlock asked eagerly.  "Could you locate it again?"  
  
"Without a doubt," John replied.  "I made note of the place.  And whoever was there seemed to respond to the light from my lantern."  
  
Sherlock sat back, frowning in thought.  "Dangerous, to be out on the moors after dark."  
  
"So I thought," he said, nodding.  "And another thing: Mrs. Stapleton told me that Sir Charles was assisting her in securing her divorce from her absent husband.  He was out on the moors that night because he had important information to share with her."  
  
"Well," Sherlock said, rising from the chair and shedding his dressing gown,  "enough of this!  We have much to do today.  I shall go down to take a look at those wills while you dress.  I suggest casual as we will be doing a great deal of walking.  Oh, and Wiggins has returned your boots."  
  
Sherlock grabbed his coat from a peg in the wardrobe and hurried out of the room, leaving John to contemplate the remains of his breakfast.

* * *

 

 After dressing in his most casual breeches and coat, John joined Sherlock in the study where it appeared that his husband had some success.  He refused to talk until they were away from the Hall, though, and walking along the carriage road to Lafter Hall.  
  
"Dr. Mortimer received a small sum under Sir Charles' will," Sherlock began, "but he is also named as executor, which gives him access to the Baskerville accounts.  He fares even better monetarily under Henry's will but loses his tenancy at the Hall, which is to be turned over to Miss Stapleton, as well as the majority of his assets.  Her trustees while she is under age are Dr. Mortimer, Mr. Frankland, and their lawyer.  Mrs Stapleton receives an annuity so long as her current husband remains out of the picture; should she remarry, she loses the annuity - no doubt to keep her from becoming prey to another vulture seeking an easy berth.  What is more interesting is that the Barrymores received a nice inheritance, enough for them to retire from service if they choose."  
  
John was surprised although he assumed part of that was reward for looking after the place while Charles was in South Africa.  "Reason for them to desire Sir Charles' death, but surely not Henry's?  If they wished to leave they have only to give notice, and they can't expect to receive such a generous bequest from a new employer."  
  
"True.  Mr. Frankland's place in this muddle is unclear as well.  As trustee to his great-granddaughter, he could settle a number of his court cases in his favour - most are petty disputes between both Halls, the exact definition of easements, and so on.  And he was not happy with Sir Charles' decision to lease Merripit House to a stranger, although it is clear that Mrs. Stapleton had no desire to live there.  But none of these trifles seem to warrant deliberate murder."  
  
"Unless he had something to do with the death of Henry's father," John said, nodding.  "Did they ever find the body?"  
  
"No; he was believed to have fallen into the bogs, despite young Henry's story.  I have a clerk at Somerset House verifying the death certificate, as well as marriage records for Stapleton," Sherlock said.  "It is difficult to conceive of a motive, however."  
  
"Perhaps Frankland had hoped that John Baskerville would marry his daughter, giving him access to the Baskerville estate?" John ventured.  
  
"To what end?  It is clear from the state of decay at the Hall that the Baskervilles were run off their legs.  Their current fortune came about through Sir Charles' investments in South Africa.  Henry's father would have had barely two groats to rub together."  
  
John gave up trying to reason out murderer and motive, but as they had arrived at Lafter Hall, he was quite willing to set aside those thoughts.

Miss Stapleton was waiting for them in the drawing room, her mother sitting quietly in the background to lend propriety to the meeting.  Kirsten was a quick, intelligent girl, very self-assured, and she and Sherlock took to each other immediately.  She described the events leading up to the discovery of Bluebell in a clear and concise manner, and Sherlock only had to ask a few questions to clear up the details.  
  
"I have one question," John asked, as they prepared to visit the scene of Bluebell's demise.  "Why Bluebell?  It seems an unusual name for a rabbit."  
  
"Oh, she was an unusual rabbit!" Kirsten replied, "At night, when I shut the doors to her hutch and peeked inside, I could see that she glowed! A lovely shade of blue-green."  
  
Sherlock frowned a bit.  "She glowed?  You are certain that it wasn't a trick of the light?"  
  
"Oh no!  She glowed, I am certain.  Like a fairy!"  
  
Deep in contemplation, Sherlock followed Kirsten out to where the rabbit hutch was kept in the conservatory.  John followed them and watched as Sherlock carefully examined the hutch, even running his finger over the interior surface.  When he had completed his examination, he turned to Kirsten very solemnly.  
  
"You are quite right, Miss Stapleton.  Bluebell was indeed murdered, and I have a good idea as to why, but I will need to do further investigation.  Might I ask from whence the rabbit came?"  
  
"It was a present four months ago, on my birthday," Kirsten explained.  "It arrived that morning, with a ribbon wrapped around the cage and a tag directed to me."  
  
"And you have no idea where it came from or who sent it?"  
  
Kirsten hesitated, looking at the two men and then back into the house as if checking to see if anyone else was in earshot.  "I think it was from my father," she said quietly.  "There was a note - it wasn't signed but Mother's lips got all pinched when she read it."  
  
"Very good," Sherlock said, then held out his hand.  "Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Stapleton.  I will let you know when I uncover anything of significance with your case."  
  
Kirsten's face lit up.  "Am I a real case now?" she asked delightedly, then looked up at John.  "Will you write it up, Lord Saughton?"  
  
"Certainly," John promised, thinking that even if the matter came to nothing, he would write it up for her.  
  
Once they had taken leave of Mrs Stapleton and her daughter, Sherlock led the way to the carriage road, gesturing in the opposite direction from Baskerville Hall.  "Am I right in thinking that this takes us into Grimpen village itself?" he asked John.  
  
"Yes, but there's not much to see." 

Despite this, Sherlock turned toward Grimpen and John fell into place beside him.  He gave Sherlock a sideways look. 

"There was something about the rabbit that I missed, wasn't there?"  
  
"Obviously."  
  
" _Sherlock_."  
  
Sherlock looked at him in amusement.  "A glowing rabbit, John?  Don't you consider that a trifle unusual?"  
  
"I assumed that Miss Stapleton's account was a bit fanciful."  
  
"She strikes me as a very level-headed young lady."  
  
" ' _Like a fairy_ '?"  
  
Sherlock huffed.  "Perhaps given to a _little_ hyperbole.  Still, close examination of the hutch revealed something very interesting."  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, unfolding it to reveal a few hairs which appeared to have an unusual colour and texture.    
  
"What is that?" John asked.  
  
"A phosphorescent agent of some sort, source unknown."  He scowled.  "I wish that I had access to my microscope."  
  
"Why would Miss Stapleton's father give her a rabbit whose fur was doctored with an unknown substance?" John asked.    
  
"Possibly he didn't realize that it had been doctored, or it was an experiment," Sherlock replied, tucking the handkerchief back in his pocket.  "Without knowing the man, it is impossible to theorize."  
  
"Any guesses as to what killed it, then?"  
  
"You know that I never guess," Sherlock said shortly.  "And yes, I have several theories.  Time will tell me which is correct."  
  
He said nothing more for the rest of their walk, which wasn't long.  As they neared the village, Sherlock began scanning it critically, no doubt deducing a hundred things that John didn't even notice.  He headed straight for the little pub which was just opening, stepping right up to the bar to order what was on tap for them.  It was bloody awful and John struggled to drink it while Sherlock struck up a casual conversation with the innkeeper.  It seemed to concern the drinking habits of nearly everyone in the surrounding area: who liked to come by regularly for a drink and who didn't.  The good Dr. Mortimer stopped by for a pint to be sociable when he was in the village and Mr. Frankland had been known to bend the elbow a couple of times, particularly when someone else sported their blunt, while Mr. Vandeleur occasionally took a meal with a pint.  Sir Charles had occasionally taken a glass of bitters but Sir Henry didn't give them his custom, although he was generally excused on the account of being a sickly lad.  When Stapleton's name was mentioned by Sherlock, the innkeeper snorted.  
  
"Not likely we'd see 'is likes in 'ere," he said.  "Too hoity-toity and la-de-dah 'e was, thinkin' hisself above the rest of us.  Exeter's where 'e took 'is business, and bloody good on them.  Lad was far too ready wif his fists, so I 'ear."  
  
After asking a few more questions, Sherlock thanked the innkeeper and bought him a drink, then they took their leave.  Sherlock strolled around the village a little, looking for all the world like a tourist taking in the sights, but within a short time he led the way to the moor road that John had taken the previous day.  
  
"Well?" John asked.  "Anything?"  
  
"Quite a lot, actually," Sherlock replied.  "The village is too small for Stapleton to be hiding in it without being discovered, and the inhabitants don't think highly of him so it's doubtful that they'd be concealing him.  In fact, he hasn't been seen in Grimpen since he eloped with Miss Beryl almost ten years ago.  It's possible that he is sheltering on the moor and that it was his light you saw last night.  We will need to investigate that area."

Something had occurred to John and he said, "It's odd that everyone thinks Sir Henry sickly, isn't it?"  
  
Sherlock gave him a sideways look, a little puzzled.  "Is it?"  
  
"The man is a bundle of nerves, granted, but considering what's been happening, that's understandable," John said.  "But I had the opportunity to look him over last night and he is in generally good health."  
  
"His family history of heart failure - "  
  
John frowned.  "Says who?  His father was likely murdered - nothing of heart failure there.  His grandfather and great-grandfather?  They died young but no one has mentioned ill-health.  Dr. Mortimer is the only one who has mentioned heart problems, and that was in regard to Sir Charles who was most likely murdered.  When I examined Henry, his heart appeared just fine. In fact, if he had been prone to such problems, I doubt that he would have left the Hollow alive last night."  
  
Sherlock stopped and turned toward him.  "Frankland mentioned Sir Henry's health last night - I heard his disparaging remarks to you on the subject.  And Mortimer hovers over him like he's fragile and likely to drop at any moment."  
  
John nodded.  "Could one of them be spreading that tale so that no one is surprised if Henry collapses from terror?  Or could they be working together?"  
  
"Possible," Sherlock said slowly, then scowled.  "I need more data!"  He turned and strode down the path, and John hurried to keep pace with him.

When they reached the divergence of the moor path, John put his back to the Devil's Hollow, although not without some uneasiness.  It felt to him as if a miasma hung over the place, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.  He deliberately ignored every instinct telling him to _turn around_ , to _run,_ and instead stared out over the moor to gain his bearings.  The Great Grimpen Mire stretched out before him, only broken by the occasional stony outcropping and Tor.  Directly in front of him stretched a long spit of gravel and he sighted along it.  
  
"There!" he said, pointing to the Tor where he'd seen the light.  "That's the place."  
  
Sherlock stared out over the moor, eyes fixed on the point.  "It is one of the few places high enough to be seen from here," he said.  "Near the Black Tor, I imagine, and about a mile distant."  
  
"If that is where Stapleton has made his lair, I wonder that he dares to be so close."  
  
"He may think that few look out over the moor at night - and your sighting that light was unpredictable and unexpected."    
  
He led the way towards the distant landmark, across terrain that was hard gravel and rough gorse at the start, firm under foot although inhospitable.  About half-way out, though, the land fell away abruptly, the steep slope leading down into the great Grimpen Mire that stood between them and the Black Tor.  It was a disheartening sight, to see the pools of water amongst the marshy ground that had proved so treacherous to man and beast.  Sherlock, however, had seen something that John hadn't.  
  
"Look, John!  It is clear that someone has passed along this way, and often.  Someone has marked the path."  
  
John looked out where Sherlock was pointing and saw that a way through the mire had indeed been marked with flags.  Carefully they picked their way across the mire, following the flags.  More than once, John felt the ground sink under his foot and knew that there was no way he'd have made it safely across without the markers - and certainly not in the dark.  He breathed more easily when they once again reached the solid ground leading upward.  
  
As they made their way up the hillside, John saw that there were several old stone huts in the cleft of the hills, sitting between Black Tor and Cleft Tor.  They were mostly in ruins, although a few had walls and one had remnants of a roof.  It was toward these that Sherlock headed, moving cautiously and quietly.  The area was still, though, and John knew that their quarry was elsewhere.  
  
So, it appeared, did Sherlock.  He ducked into the doorway of the somewhat intact dwelling and John followed,  The hut was indeed empty but there were signs of habitation, although not as much as John would have expected.  There was a little table with a lantern on it, unlit now, and a stool, but no bedding or food.  A half-full bottle of spirits sat on the remnants of the back wall, alongside a dog's collar.  John picked it up.  It was too small for the type of Hound that supposedly haunted the Baskerville family, though, more the size of a small dog.  The tag read "Fluffy" and John silently handed it to Sherlock.  
  
"Mrs. Stapleton has a small dog named Fluffy."  
  
"'Had', I believe is the more appropriate term," Sherlock said.  "How small?"  
  
"A spaniel - the one that attacked my boots.  Not what you and Sir Henry saw, I presume."  
  
"No," Sherlock said shortly.  "It was at least the size of a mastiff."  He still seemed ill-at-ease about the dog so John refrained from saying anything more.    
  
Sherlock carefully set the collar back exactly where they'd found it and John raised an eyebrow.  "You think he will come back?"  
  
"Perhaps.  If he does, nothing must appear out of place."  Sherlock looked around the little room, frowning.  "Something is wrong but I can't put my finger on it."  
  
"Well, there's no bedding or food, for one thing," John said.  "You may not eat or sleep when working, but most of the rest of us do."  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned to grab John by the shoulders.  "John!  You’ve never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable."  
  
John wasn't certain if he'd been insulted or praised.  "You've said that before - what I have I done that's so bloody stimulating?"  
  
Sherlock didn't reply, just grinned at him, then kissed his cheek and raced out of the hut.  John stood for a moment, staring after him, his hand touching his cheek and wondering what had just happened.  Then he ran after Sherlock.  
  
"Wait!" he yelled to Sherlock, seeing that he was half-way down the tor on his way back to the mire.  "What did I do?"  
  
"Food!" Sherlock called back.  
  
John gave up trying to figure it out and hurried after Sherlock.

* * *

 

As they returned to Baskerville Hall, Sherlock remained mysterious about whatever revelation he had come to so John gave up trying to work it out of him.  Instead,  he went in search of Henry and found him in the main salon, reading the Exeter newspaper and looking none the worse for his fright the previous night.  Dr. Mortimer was hovering nearby and, watching him, John found it difficult to believe that he would wish his step-son's death.  It seemed much more likely that Frankland or Stapleton were behind the plots on Henry's life.  If Stapleton was even in the area, which John was beginning to doubt as there seemed to be no sign of the man.  
  
John would have suggested cancelling that the evening's visit to Merripit House, in light of the previous day's events, but Sherlock was keen to meet the naturalist and Henry was clearly growing restive under Mortimer's cosseting.  So it was that John found himself dressed in his second-best coat and breeches, riding one of the stable horses beside the carriage bearing the other three men, bound for Merripit House.  Dr Mortimer had insisted that there be no repeat of the previous night's events.  If he was called out to a patient, he planned to take the horse so that the other three would have the carriage to go home in.  No trip along the moor on foot was to be undertaken, he insisted, and to John's surprise Sherlock readily agreed.  
  
Vandaleur was delighted to see them, welcoming them into the house with every appearance of pleasure.  John thought that the gregarious man must miss the comradry of his fellow professors, no matter how much he professed to admire the Grimpen Mire and its wildlife.  He had engaged the services of a cook from Darlington for the evening, he explained, assuring them that they would have nothing to regret when they sat down to dinner in the small, old-fashioned dining room.  The house itself was snug if small and unfashionable, the sort of country cottage that John had expected.  Vandaleur was willing to show them over the place when Sherlock professed an interest in the house, and the mention of his own interest in insects sparked another invitation to see the outbuilding where Vandaleur had  fashioned a work-space for mounting his collection of insects from the Mire.  And when Sherlock admitted his plan to re-establish the apiary at Saughton, the success of the evening was assured - at least as far as Vandaleur and Sherlock were concerned.  Over a good if not inspired dinner, their topics of conversation ranged from managing hives and preventing disease to increasing honey yield, as both men forged a kinship that was apparent to all.  John listened with half an ear, always amused to see Sherlock's interests sparked, but Henry and Mortimer were clearly bored and talked quietly between themselves.    
  
Over brandy and cigars, Vandaleur seemed to recall his other guests and apologised so earnestly that both Henry and Mortimer readily accepted an invitation for the next night, in order to make amends.  John and Sherlock were invited as well, but Sherlock demurred saying that he and John had business in Exeter that would require them to stay the night there.  John tried not to display his surprise at this news, assuming that they would be pursuing news of Stapleton.    
  
And so it was with expressions of cordiality on both sides that the Baskerville party parted from their host and returned to the Hall.  Claiming fatigue, Henry bid them good-night and was followed up by Mortimer.  Sherlock lingered for a little while in the front hall, looking up at the gallery of paintings that hung on the walls there.  John remained with him, both reluctant to go up to bed alone and curious as to what Sherlock was looking at, for the man rarely did anything without a purpose.  
  
As Barrymore passed through the room to secure the great front door, Sherlock waylaid him for a moment, calling him over to the gallery of paintings.  
  
"Barrymore, as you have served the family for many years, can you identify those of Sir Henry's ancestors among these paintings?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Certainly, my lord," Barrymore said.  He pointed out a portrait featuring three young children, two boys and a girl, whom he identified as the late Sir Charles and his younger brother and sister, grandparents to Sir Henry and Beryl Stapleton.  Another painting of two handsome young lads who bore a striking resemblance to Henry turned out to be his father and uncle, and an austere man with severe dress and large side-whiskers was identified as the infamous Sir Hugo's son and heir.  Barrymore regretted that there weren't more recent paintings of Sir Charles or Henry's father but added that Sir Henry had agreed to sit for his portrait.  
  
"And the infamous Sir Hugo himself?" Sherlock asked, after looking at each of these paintings intently.  "Is there a painting of him?"  
  
"Oh, yes, my lord," Barrymore replied, and indicated a man dressed in cavalier style with falling locks of hair.  Sherlock thanked him and stood staring up at the painting while Barrymore returned to his nightly duties.  
  
"Sherlock?"  John prompted, after watching his husband stare at the painting for a few long minutes.  
  
"Look here, John; do you see anything familiar in Sir Hugo's face?"  
  
John looked up at the painting, trying to see what Sherlock might be alluding too.  "There is something of Sir Henry about his chin, isn't there?"  
  
"Yes, but it is his eyes and forehead to which I call your attention.  I, of course, have trained myself to recognize faces."  Sherlock pulled a chair over to the wall and stepped up on it, taking John's candle and holding it up so that he could see more clearly.    
  
John couldn't help gasping out loud, for it seemed as if the very semblance of Jack Vandaleur hung upon the wall, excepting the old-fashioned dress and curls.  "It's Vandaleur!" he exclaimed.  "How can that be?"  
  
Sherlock made a shushing motion and hopped down from the chair, taking John's arm to pull him up the stairs to their bedchamber.   Once the door was closed behind them, John repeated his question.  
  
"That is Vandaleur - I would be prepared to swear to it!" John said.  "How is that possible?"  
  
"I suspect that the answer lies in Sir Hugo's last victim, the minister's daughter, Alice," Sherlock replied.  "The tale says that she survived her brutal abduction but I suspect that her virginity did not, and that she bore Sir Hugo's bastard child."  
  
"And Vandaleur discovered this, returning to the area to lay a claim to the Baskerville title and fortune," John guessed.  "But how would that be possible?  Even if all the heirs died, he would be descended from a bastard.  He hasn't a hope of proving legitimacy as it is well documented that Sir Hugo was already married.  Unless he simply wishes to avenge his ancestress's name."  
  
Sherlock frowned slightly.  "Vandaleur doesn't strike me as an altruistic sort.  He is vain and much addicted to the sound of his own voice.  Seldom have I spent a duller evening."  
  
John chuckled.  "I expect that Henry and Mortimer would agree with that, although one would never have guessed it to watch you.  I thought you enjoyed discussing your beloved bees with him."  
  
"His knowledge is considerable but rather intently focused on a narrow subject, that of worker bee response to invasion of the hive.  That, however, has given me an important clue in solving this mystery," Sherlock admitted.  "If only I knew where Mrs. Stapleton fits into all this."  
  
"Beryl Stapleton?" John asked, surprised.  He had considered her a victim rather than villain and wondered what he had missed.  There was, of course, no point in asking that question of Sherlock for the answer would be "everything of significance."  
  
"Yes.  Is she a reluctant or willing pawn of Vandaleur?"  
  
"I would say reluctant," John replied, reflecting back on the way she had acted towards the man when they had met on the path.    
  
"Ah, but the actions of persons in love can be highly contradictory and are difficult for me to fathom, even after your assistance last night."  
  
John flushed at this illusion to the way they had spent the previous night.  "You think Beryl loves Vandaleur?" he asked, surprised.  
  
"No, I would be willing to swear that her heart beats solely for our friend, Sir Henry, but I have noted that those in love are capable of great self-sacrifice to protect those whom they love."  His brow wrinkled at this statement.  "I admit that I still do not fully comprehend that motive, but perhaps it is because I have never experienced that particular emotion."  
  
John considered his own feelings for Mary, the love that he had painfully put aside in the name of his obligations to his family.  While that had been a sacrifice and still caused him a pang when he thought of his lost dreams, it had not been made for Mary's benefit.  Rather the opposite he thought, recalling Mary's bitterness at  their last few public meetings.  He also thought that it reflected rather poorly on the quality of his love.  
  
"However, the packet I will receive tomorrow should shed light on these matters," Sherlock said briskly as he removed his coat and donned his dressing gown.  "Tomorrow will be a busy day, John, and will no doubt see a conclusion to this matter.  You will need your rest."  
  
John pulled off his own coat as he moved towards the dressing room.  "Will you be sleeping tonight?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "I have much to think about," he replied, picking up his pipe from the mantle and beginning to pack it.  "You may have the bed in here."  
  
John didn't protest, knowing Sherlock's habits already and also sensing that his husband would be more comfortable with his presence nearby.  He changed into his nightshirt and dressing gown, then re-entered the bedchamber and climbed into the chilly bed.  He found himself thinking longingly of Baker Street, particularly Mrs. Hudson's efficient management that ensured that the beds were warmed, and hoped that Sherlock was right that the next day would see the end of the matter.

* * *

 

As the Mail coach was not expected at Exeter until afternoon, Sherlock allowed John to sleep until mid-morning, at which time he ruthlessly chivvied him out of bed and into the dressing room.  Sherlock explained that he had been up since dawn, prowling the estate and poking into all the outbuildings before stopping at the stables to order a trap for the day.  He did allow John to break his fast, fidgeting impatiently until John forced a slice of toast and a cup of tea on him by simply stating that he would not budge until Sherlock had consumed them.  The moment John set down his empty teacup, however, Sherlock was on his feet, dragging John out to the waiting conveyance.    
  
John was glad to take the reins while Sherlock studied the countryside as they drove to Exeter.  The day was fine and the horse well-trained so that the hour trip to Exeter passed pleasantly.  They stabled the horse at the Clarence Hotel, which enjoyed the custom of the Baskervilles, and then walked to the New London Inn where they learned that the Mail would not arrive until four, although it was not expected to be late.  Since they had several hours to occupy, Sherlock decided their best coarse of action was to visit the various inns to discover which had enjoyed Stapleton's custom as a youth and learn what they could of him.  John had no fault to find with this as the basest of manners required they purchase and consume a pint during this questioning.  After pausing to take a look at the new Subscription Rooms on New London Square, they made their way in orderly fashion to the Half Moon, the White Lion and the White Horse where John supplemented his beer with a shepherd's pie.  Finally, at the Old London the proprietor, a Mr. Pratt, recognized the name although he scowled at them and kept his hand about the tankard he had just pulled.  
  
"You be friends of his?"  
  
"Never met him," Sherlock said promptly.  
  
"Then why're you askin' about him?"  
  
Sherlock waved a negligent hand.  "We have been engaged to inquire into his character by Mrs. Stapleton's solicitors."  
  
Mr. Pratt's face softened and he slid the tankard over to John.  "Had enough of his ways, has she?  Poor lass!  Though I will say as he had winning ways when he wanted."  
  
Sherlock placed coins for the price of three drinks on the bar.  "You'll have one as well?"  
  
Mr. Pratt cocked his head.  "Well, business being light at this hour, don't mind if I do."  He pulled another pint, then leaned forward and lowered his voice.  "Young Jake was a piece of work, I can tell you that.  Could cozen your smalls off-a you without you bein' none the wiser.  Fair-haired and well-put together, had all the lads and lasses chasing him with his sweet talk and winning ways.  Unless you crossed him and then..." He shook his head and took a swallow of his beer. "Fast and hard with his fists, and the devil's own temper.  Come by that natural, though.  Tom Stapleton was a mean man, beat his wife and son when he was in the drink - which he usually was. "  
  
"When was the last time you saw the younger Stapleton?" Sherlock asked.    
  
"Night he ran away with Miss Beryl it was," Pratt replied.  "Had the hire of the chaise from me, aye, and left without paying his reckoning.  Said he'd be back once they were buckled but never saw him again."  
  
"So he hasn't been in the neighbourhood recently?"  
  
"Not here, that's for certain, nor any place else I've heard."  
  
"What about the others from Baskerville Hall?"  John asked.  "Sir Henry or Dr. Mortimer?  Or their neighbour, Mr. Frankland?"  
  
"Not seen the new baronet nor the doctor, but Mr. Frankland stops in now and again, when he has legal business in town."  
  
"Ever seen him have a drink with anyone?"  
  
Pratt snorted.  "Catch him having a drink with anyone, the skin-flint.  Unless they was buying."  
  
Another customer entered the inn and Pratt turned away to deal with him, leaving them to finish their drinks.  John waited until he was out of earshot before leaning closer to Sherlock and saying, softly, "Did you hear his description of Stapleton?  'Fair haired'?  Remind you of someone?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "It would explain a few things, although why no one recognized him..."  He glanced up at the clock.  "It's nearly four.  Finish your drink; we have to meet the Mail."  
  
John drained his tankard and followed Sherlock out, hurrying towards New London Square.   When they arrived, the Mail was just disgorging its passengers and Sherlock waited impatiently for the mail box to be unloaded.  Then Lestrade stepped down from the coach and John heard Sherlock swear out loud before he strode towards Lestrade.  
  
"What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
Lestrade turned to them.  "Nice to see you, too.  Hullo, John."  
  
John nodded at him.  "Greg."  
  
Sherlock interrupted.  "I'm waiting for an explanation, _Surveyor Lestrade_.  Why are you here?  Did my brother send you down here to spy on me?  Is that why you're calling yourself 'Greg'?"  
  
John coughed and leaned closer to Sherlock.  "That's his name."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "It is?"  
  
Lestrade crossed his arms and glared at Sherlock.  "Yes, if you ever bothered to find out.  Look, I am not here to spy on you - and I don't just do what your brother tells me."  
  
Sherlock had caught sight of something else and he swore.  "Don't tell me you said _yes_?  That you actually agreed to a civil partnership with my brother?"  
  
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes," Lestrade said, and now John could see that he was wearing a gold band on his right hand.    
  
"Congratulations," John said warmly, extending his hand.  "Ignore anything Sherlock says - we both are happy for you."  
  
"Thanks," Lestrade said, shaking his hand.  Then he pulled a sealed packet out of his pocket and held it out to Sherlock.  "Here's the information you wanted."  
  
Sherlock greedily snatched the packet and was about to open it when John put his hand over the seal.    
  
"If that's what I think it is, you might want to open it somewhere private.  Baskerville?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "We can't arrive back until Sir Henry has left for Merripit House.  Everything depends on us catching Vandaleur in the act."  
  
"A private room in an inn, then," John said decisively.  "No doubt Lestrade would be glad of a warm meal and a chance to rest."  
  
"Cheers," Lestrade said in agreement.  "Been on that bloody coach for a day, not counting changes."  
  
Sherlock scowled but agreed, and in a trice John had secured them a private dining room, arranging for a pot of coffee and sandwiches with dinner to be served in two hours.  Lestrade gobbled down two sandwiches with a cup of coffee, then laid down on the settee under his coat for a nap, while Sherlock commandeered the table to spread out the papers he'd received.  John gave him time to go through them while he had a sandwich and a cup of coffee, then he joined him at the table.  
  
"Anything interesting?" he asked, quietly so as not to disturb Lestrade.  
  
"Very," Sherlock said, also lowly.  "John Stapleton's father was named Thomas, and he was the son of James Stapleton.  James was born to Thomas Stapleton and his new bride, Alice Sawyer, seven months after their marriage."  
  
"Alice - the minister's daughter?" John asked and Sherlock nodded.  "And no one questioned the sire of her son?"  
  
"No doubt they wished to spare her feelings; rather than shame her for something not her fault, they accepted the polite fiction.  James was a Beta so there was no point in mentioning his true father, although it explains why the Stapletons had the lease of Merripit House in perpetuity."  
  
"If John Stapleton is a Beta and from a Beta line, he can't inherit the title," John pointed out.  "So what is the point of this vendetta against the Baskervilles?  Unless that is the point?"    
  
"You forget, John - the next heir is his daughter, an Alpha, through her mother's line," Sherlock pointed out.  "A minor child."  
  
"Oh!" John drew in a sharp breath.  "As her father, he would have control of her, no matter that she has trustees."  
  
"Precisely.  And Frankland is old, and accidents can happen to doctors driving home late from seeing patients..."  
  
John sat back in his chair.  "Vandaleur is Stapleton, and Stapleton is Hugo Baskerville's great-grandson.  How has no one noticed?"  
  
"Vandaleur keeps to himself, only goes into Grimpen where Stapleton never set food.  And it has been nearly ten years since he left the area."  
  
"Do you think Beryl is involved?  That she is willing to let Henry die so that her daughter inherits?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "We won't know for certain until we can question them both, but I believe that her husband has her too terrified to oppose him.  The death of Kirsten's rabbit is highly suspicious.  I imagine he was instrumental in that, and threatened the same fate for Kirsten."  
  
"How is he doing it, though?  We saw every bit of Merripit House and it's outbuildings, and he wasn't keeping a dog in that hut on the moor.  I don't suppose he's hidden the dog on Baskerville grounds?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "I checked all the outbuildings this morning and there is no sign of a dog anywhere.  In fact, I doubt that there is a dog at all."  At John's surprised look he said, "You said it yourself - no food.  A dog of that size would require a great deal of food, something difficult to conceal or explain, particularly for a single man with no known pets."  
  
"But you saw the dog."  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  "I saw - or thought I saw - something.  I heard howling - no doubt from poor Fluffy who I believe met an untimely end at his hands.  After the stories we heard, I was expecting a dog so that's what I saw."  
  
"You are not easily swayed by suggestion," John said.  "Henry, yes, but not you."  
  
"I have thought about that and I believe I have an answer, but I need more proof."  
  
"And you think that Vandaleur - Stapleton - will provide that information tonight?" John asked.  "How high is the risk to Sir Henry?"  
  
"There is some risk, but we will be present to prevent Vandaleur from taking any action.  He can't risk a weapon such as a knife or gun.  It must look as if Henry died of fright.  Since you have assured me that Henry's heart isn't weak, it is his mind and nerves that we must consider.  However, having a successful resolution to the case should resolve that."  
  
John was doubtful, recalling how upset Henry had been after the recent encounter, although he had been relieved that Sherlock had shared his experience.  He resolved to retrieve his revolver from their room before returning to the Hollow.  Stapleton might not be able to use a weapon but John was not similarly hampered.

* * *

  
Dinner arrived and John woke Lestrade; apparently he was accustomed to short naps because he was considerably more alert than John would have been.  They ate quickly, then retrieved the trap from the stables and set off for Baskerville Hall.  They arrived at the stables after dark, verifying that Sir Henry had left for Merripit House on horseback, alone, as Dr. Mortimer had been called away on a medical emergency.  This development didn't appear to surprise Sherlock at all.    
  
John went up to their rooms to fetch his revolver and their coats as the night was getting cool and he didn't know long they would have to wait.  When he rejoined the others he found that Sherlock had secured a lantern so they could find their way to the Hollow.  For John had no doubt that's where they were going and he wasn't wrong.    
  
"Lestrade, are you armed?" Sherlock asked and the Thames surveyor nodded, then he looked at John and gave him a half-smile.  "No need to ask you, John."  
  
John gave him a tight smile.  "Care to tell us the plan, Sherlock?  Or are you going to let us stumble about blind?"  
  
Sherlock scowled.   "I do not - fine.  Vandaleur - Stapleton - will find some way to lame Henry's horse and Henry will have to take the moor path - the carriage road circles too wide.  Stapleton knows the paths through the mire better, though, and there is undoubtedly a shorter route to this point, so he will get here before Henry and will lie in wait for him.  No doubt he will have been priming Henry's imagination, feeding his fears."  
  
"What about the dog?" John persisted.  "Are you certain that there isn't one?"  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  "Yes.  Well, ninety percent certain.  But you both have guns so we'll be fine!"  He gave them both his wide, fake smile, then turned and strode down the path towards the Hollow.  Then he turned back to them and said, rapidly,  "Stapleton may be using an airborne scent  to cause fear and hallucinations, so you might want to cover your nose and mouth."  
  
He turned back around, winding his scarf along the lower part of his face as he walked. John and Lestrade exchanged a look and then hurried after Sherlock as they wrapped their own mufflers around their faces.    
  
When they reached the fork in the paths, Sherlock looked around and fixed on an outcropping of rocks near the split in the path and pointed to them.  
  
"We'll wait here.  It will give us a good view of the paths.  Lestrade, you and I will shelter behind these rocks.  John, I want you on the other side, at the top of the Hollow as you seem less sensitive to the effects of the drug.  But do not go down into the Hollow unless it is absolutely necessary, and if you do go in, don't trust anything that you see."

John nodded and took his place in the bracken while the others hid in a small hollow behind the rocks.  He was immediately aware of that tingling feeling on the back of his neck, the certainty that _something_ was watching him.  He set his mind to ignore the feeling, tightening the muffler over his nose and mouth.  The sensation eased and he took heart from the knowledge that Sherlock was (probably) right, and he settled in to wait.  Sherlock had closed the shutters on the lantern and, as the moon was waning, the night was growing dark.  A mist was rising up from over the moor which troubled John, especially if they lost sight of Sir Henry in the shrouding fog.

Finally, the sound of steps moving quickly along the path from the direction of Merripit House caught John's ears.  He couldn't make out a form yet but it was more than likely Sir Henry.  Then, a few minutes later, he heard another sound, this time from the moor.  It wouldn't be Sir Henry - not from that direction - and John fixed his eyes in towards the sound.  The mist was growing denser but out of its shrouds emerged a figure - and John drew in a sharp breath for it was not a man, it was a monster.  The legs and torso were human, but the head - the head was something out of a nightmare.  John stared at it, breathing hard, and felt a wave of fear wash over him.

And now Henry was at the fork of the paths, pausing to look around him uneasily.  John could see him out of the corner of his eye but didn't dare take his eyes off of the _thing_ to check for Sherlock and Lestrade.  It - _the thing_ \- growled and Henry spun about on the path, screaming out in terror and falling to the ground.  John heard Sherlock's shout, saw him move forward  to protect Henry as the creature raised its front limbs, the moonlight gleaming off its sharp talons.  A sudden wave of anger washed over John and he raised his gun, aiming squarely at the creature, then pulled the trigger.

The figure spun and fell back, clutching at its shoulder as it fell to the ground.  John leapt up from his place of concealment and pinned the creature with his booted foot in the middle of his chest, aiming his gun between the creature's eyes.

"John!" Sherlock shouted from behind him.  "Don't shoot - it's Stapleton!"

"I know damn well it's Stapleton," John growled, not raising his eyes from his target.  "Lestrade, get over here and keep your gun on him while I check his shoulder."

Lestrade appeared at his shoulder, his gun aimed at the pinned man's head.  John tucked away his revolver and lifted his foot from Stapleton's chest, going to his knee beside the fallen man while being careful not to get between Lestrade and Stapleton.   Stapleton was clutching his shoulder with his clawed hands, making the damage worse.   John grabbed his wrist and ripped off the taloned glove, flinging it to the side so that he could access the wound.  It was a clean shot to his upper left shoulder and John pulled off his muffler to press against the wound.

"The bastard will probably live," John said shortly to Sherlock.  "How is Sir Henry?"

"Shaken but fine," Sherlock reported then added, hesitantly, "John, you're growling."

"I know fucking well that I am growling."  Now that the the wound was staunched and the pad secured, John felt safe in reaching up to tear the mask off of Stapleton.  "Whatever that damned drug is, he stinks of it."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said, and John chanced a look up at him to see that he was studying the taloned glove.  "It appears that he has created an artificial variant on the alarm pheromones of honeybees.  This scent alerts others of the species to danger, and they react by freezing, running away, or attacking.  The variant he used the other evening included a component that induces hallucinations but he couldn't risk that tonight, not when he had to come so close to Henry to carry out the final step in his plan."

"But why?" Henry asked plaintively, turning his attention to Stapleton as John helped the injured man to his feet, keeping a firm hand on his elbow.  "What have I done that you should wish to harm me in this manner?"

"What have you done?" Stapleton said, glaring at Henry angrily.  "You're a Baskerville - that's reason enough!"

"So are you," Sherlock pointed out, then turned to Henry.  "Stapleton's great-grandmother was the last woman abducted by Sir Hugo and she bore his bastard son, although by then she had been married to a Stapleton."  He turned back to Stapleton.  "When did you learn the truth?"

"On her deathbed," Stapleton spit out.  "She told my father, swore him to secrecy, but I was outside the room and I heard them.  It ate away at him, driving him to drink, to beating me and Mother."

"It drove him to worse than that," Sherlock said.  "He killed John Baskerville.  You were a witness, just as Henry was."

"I helped!" Stapleton snapped.  "He didn't plan to do it.  He was drunk, as usual, filthy and matted from sleeping rough for a week on the moor.  Mother sent me to find him and I saw him strike Baskerville down, heard the little brat run off screaming about the Hound.  Father would have stood there, waiting for them to arrest him, without me.  I told him to drag the body to the bog, to weight it down.  Not that the bastard appreciated it; drank himself to death inside a year."

"You - no - " Henry stammered, swaying on his feet, looking pale and terrified still to John's eyes.  "There never was any monster?"

"No," Sherlock said, turning to Henry.  "Just an evil man, playing on our imagination."

Henry's expression turned livid.  "You bastard!" he yelled, throwing himself at Stapleton.  "You - your father - you killed my father!"  He punched Stapleton, splitting his lip and knocking him out of John's grasp.  "I thought I was going mad!  I thought I was going to die!"

Stapleton staggered under the attack and wiped away a trickle of blood from his lip with the back of his hand.  "You deserve to die!  Just like Hugo, panting after a woman not your own!  You think you'll marry my Beryl?  My wife?  I'll kill her first!"

Stapleton turned and dashed out onto the moor.  John caught Henry's arm, keeping him from pursuing the other man, and a sharp look at Sherlock kept him from following as well. 

"Stapleton!  Don't be a fool, man!" Sherlock shouted.  "Come back!"

Stapleton half-turned, enough that John could see the snarling expression on his face.  "For what?  To be hanged?  I'll see you in hell - "  His words broke off, for in his haste and anger he had missed the safe path and the mire caught hold of him.  He thrashed against the bog's grip on him, crying out in fear and panic, and John involuntarily started forward to aid him. 

Lestrade caught his arm, keeping him from going into the mire.  "Don't, John," he said.  "You don't know your way.  You'll die as well."

"It's no use in any case," Sherlock said, and John looked out where Stapleton's head was disappearing into the bog.  "And perhaps it is best this way, for Beryl and Kirsten."

John reluctantly allowed Lestrade to pull him in the direction of Baskerville Hall, which he could see now was ablaze with light.  Dr. Mortimer and Barrymore bearing lanterns were hurrying down the path in their direction.  He staggered  on the path, suddenly too exhausted to put one foot in front of the other, and only made his way to the house with Lestrade's support.

"We'll need to contact the local authorities," he said to Lestrade.  "The coroner."

Lestrade nodded but Sherlock said,  "In the morning.  There is little anyone can do tonight, except to risk their lives."

John tried to protest, turning his head toward Sherlock to voice his objections, but felt it loll drunkenly on his shoulders.  "What - what's wrong - "

"The effects of the drug are wearing off," Sherlock informed him.  "Lestrade, help me get him upstairs to bed before he collapses."

John allowed himself to be man-handled up the stairs where Wiggins assisted in stripping him down to shirt and breeches before rolling him into bed under the covers.  He tried to speak, for there were certainly things that needed to be done and said, but was asleep before he could open his mouth.

* * *

 

John was awakened by the sound of banging and splashing in the dressing room.  He groaned and rolled face-down on the bed, pulling a pillow over his aching head to block out the noise.  The pillow was ruthlessly ripped away a minute later as an all-too-cheerful voice pierced his ears.

"None of that, m'lord!  Himself says that you need to get washed and dressed - you smell like whatever that nature-bloke dosed himself with.  The local constables are swarming like flies and Himself is frothing at the mouth over the terrible damage they're making of the evidence.  Says he needs your help."

John sat up with a groan.  "You tell Lord Sherlock that no, I won't shoot the constables for him.  And I won't let him have my revolver, either."

"I expected you'd say that, m'lord.  I took the liberty of hiding it last night while Himself was dashing about.  Coal scuttle."

"First - no, second place he'd look, after the dresser drawer."

"Not if there's actual coal in it."  Wiggins went over to the fireplace and dug through the scuttle, extracting John's revolver from it.  He wiped it down and then set it on the bed cover.

John nodded his thanks and dragged himself out of bed, into the bathtub, and then into clean clothes.  When he descended to the ground floor, he found that it was indeed swarming with people  - locals being organized into search parties, the village constable strutting about and trying to look important, while the coroner from Exeter mostly looked tired as he shared tea and long-suffering looks with Lestrade.  Sherlock was pacing and talking, waving his hand in the air as he talked, and John smiled fondly at him.  He looked happier than he had in weeks, almost glowing with smug satisfaction as he extolled each of the clues that had led him to Stapleton.  John was grateful that the case had brought him out of his moping and hoped that there would be more once they returned to London.

He looked around the room and saw that Sir Henry was finishing his statement to one of the coroner's men, but there was no sign of Dr. Mortimer.  He stopped Barrymore, asking for a cup of coffee or tea, then went to Henry.

"Is Dr. Mortimer feeling all right?" he asked Henry.  "I don't see him."

"He went to see Beryl - Mrs. Staple-  Beryl," Henry said.  "I wanted to go but he thought it wouldn't be proper, not after last night."  He raised his chin, meeting John's eyes.  "But I intend to ask her to marry me, once her mourning is over."

John thought that there was a definite change to Sir Henry this morning, a strength that had been lacking in the frightened young man who had collapsed on the parlour floor.  He also noticed that, while the younger man's eyes were shadowed, there was a peace in their depths now that his demons had been laid.

"John!" Sherlock called imperiously from across the room and John went to him.  The rest of the morning was spent in giving statements and the afternoon occupied in canvassing the grounds, although they didn't find much.  The only sign of Stapleton's final resting place was John's scarf covered with Stapleton's blood which had caught on one of the bushes near where he'd sunk into the mire.  The camp he'd set up in the hut was examined, and Merripit House was searched, revealing bottles of the drug he'd created and his research notes.  In the end, the coroner ruled that Stapleton had died by misadventure while in the commission of a felony, and that was the end of the matter.

It was with a sigh of relief that John sat down to a quiet dinner with the members of the household, Sherlock, and Lestrade.  The next day being Sunday, it was decided that they would accompany the Baskerville party to church in Exeter in the morning, and then he and Sherlock and Lestrade (and Wiggins) would stay the night in town before taking a private coach back to London.  Henry urged them to remain a few more days, but now that the mystery had been solved, Sherlock was eager to get back to London and John longed for his own bed in his own home.

They saw Beryl and Kirsten in church the next morning, and John thought that Beryl also looked more at peace now.  From the way she glanced over at Henry, John also suspected that her answer to Henry in a year's time would be 'yes'.  Sherlock took Kirsten aside and gravely gave his report about the cause of her rabbit's demise to the young girl.  Afterwards, Lestrade went to check with the coroner before they left Devon, while John and Sherlock went on to the lodgings that Wiggins had arranged.  As they walked from the church to the inn, John gave Sherlock a quizzical look.

"So the glowing rabbit?  You solved that as well?" he asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.  "Quite ingenious, actually.  It was the first part of the compound that Stapleton used to invoke the urge to fight or fly, which had a side-effect of luminescence.  Stapleton spread it around the bushes and trees in the Hollow to cause a feeling of unease, fear.  Then he exposed the victim to the second part of the compound, causing the victim to react - either terror or rage.  The rabbit died from fright, just like Sir Charles."  He gave John a sideways look.  "Nearly everyone exposed to that compound became terrified.  Including me.  Including Sir Henry - another Alpha.  You were the only one to react differently."

"Stapleton wasn't affected either.  Don't know what that says about me, in comparison."

"Stapleton was a Beta.  So is Lestrade, and he wasn't affected.  But you were different.  _You_ are quite remarkable."

John shrugged, trying not to blush at the intent look Sherlock was giving him, and thrust his hands into the pockets of his great coat.  "Well, I was certainly frightened last night."

"No you weren't, John.  You were acting territorially.  You were growling."

"Um, yeah.  Sorry."

"Quite all right.  It was - well.  Interesting."

John glanced sideways and saw that Sherlock was giving him his genuine smile, the one that just lifted one corner of his mouth.  John smiled back, aware of something very much like relief that things were back to normal again. 

And he was very definitely looking forward to being back in London in two days, far away from mires and from dogs of any size or shape. 

 


	33. Part III: Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer begins, a busy one filled with cases and coronations, as well as surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now connected to Chapter Four of "A Convenient Regency Marriage" for Sherlock's POV.

June had begun by the time they arrived back in London, and with it the height of the Season.  Balls, routes, card-parties, picnics - the invitations piled up on the entry table at Baker Street.  Most were declined, except for the more important events of the Season.  There was the Derby at the beginning of the month and Ascot Week in the middle, where Mycroft had obtained tickets to one of the Enclosures.   There was the Trouping of the Colours, which John enjoyed greatly, and the Opening of the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts, from which Sherlock had to be dragged away.  And the pinnacle of it all, in the middle of July, was the coronation of George IV.  
  
They saw little of Mycroft or Lestrade during this time, occupied as they were with preparations for the coronation and its security, but John's family gathered in London for the festivities.  Even Janet overcame her self-imposed exile to come to London, she and her children staying with Harry and Clara as she declared herself too impoverished to support a set of rooms at a hotel.  John, for once, was sincerely glad that Baker Street was too small for company, although he regretted not being able to give Georgia and Archie an alternative to Aunt Janet's company.  
  
In between all of this were fittings for their robes and Court dress, sizing of their coronets, as well as new sets of clothing for all the festivities surrounding the coronation.  John began to feel like a dressmaker's dummy and had no idea what he would do with all this finery once this was over. 

He was more than relieved to turn to the new cases that were brought Sherlock's way during this time.  Primary among these was the curious case of the Solitary Walker, a young woman who was being followed by a strange man as she returned to her lodgings from her place of employment.  
  
Her name was Violet Smith and she was an orphan and an Omega.  She had been fortunate enough to have an uncle who had paid for her to attend a year-round boarding school for Omegas where her gift for music had been encouraged.  Upon completion of school, she had held a few posts as a private music teacher, which also allowed her to take rooms in an Omega-only rooming house, something unheard of a decade previously.  Her current post was to the Omega daughter of a well-to-do businessman named Carruthers who'd recently returned from South Africa, and to whose house on the outskirts of London she went three days a week to give lessons.  As she was a healthy young woman with few outlets for pleasure, her greatest joy was her solitary walk from her employer's home into the nearby town where she could take a coach back to her rooms.  Her employer had offered to drive her in their pony cart but she had refused, enjoying the hour's walk and an all-too-brief freedom from the restrictions of an unmarried Omega's life.  So it had been very vexing to suddenly find herself being followed by another walker, one who trailed her during the most private part of her walk, only to disappear once she turned onto the main path to town.  This man, wearing glasses and sporting a thick beard, never approached her, but Miss Smith couldn't help but be worried and annoyed by his presence.  
  
John had the feeling that Sherlock had taken the case solely because he sympathized with Miss Smith's frustrations with the proprieties that hemmed her on all sides.  However, as it developed, it turned out that Miss Smith had true cause to worry, but not because of her follower.  He turned out to be her employer, in disguise, who had followed her for her protection.  The true threat was his friend and neighbour, whose house she passed during the most isolated section of the road.  It transpired that Miss Smith's uncle had died a wealthy man in South Africa, leaving everything to his niece.  Carruthers and his neighbour, a Mr. Woodley, had learned of this shortly before returning to England.  The sole purpose of hiring Miss Smith had been to lay a trap for her, to force her to marry one of them, as they were Alphas and had considered her fortune their just reward.  Carruther had had a change of heart but Woodley was a vile man who had no compunctions about abducting the young woman.  Fortunately for Violet Smith, Sherlock solved the case and rescued her before she could be forced into marriage to Woodley.  With the money left to her, Miss Smith was able to purchase her own home, from whence she continued to give private music lessons, and to hire a companion to lend respectability.  They learned, years later, that she had secured a good and happy marriage with a young Alpha of her own choice.  
  
After that, Sherlock was called in by the Bow Street Runners to solve a case where a notorious spy had been murdered - and whose death was made more mysterious by the appearance of two blood stains on the floor of the room where he was murdered.  Two stains, half a room apart, but only one body.  At the same time, an important treaty went missing from the home of one of Mycroft's associates, one that could destabilise the fragile peace in Europe.  Sherlock was asked by his brother to lend his assistance - successfully and, as it turned out, related to the mysterious murder.

But as July began, all of these paled in comparison to the plans centred around the Coronation of George IV.  Most of the family would be in attendance, even Janet as the Dowager Countess of Saughton, although her three children were deemed too young to attend.  They, along with Archie, were to be left behind with Nanny - and Georgia, once the Coronation was over, was to be sent home to them as well while the others went to the Coronation Banquet.  Georgia went into a Grand Sulk, rivalling even those sulks of Sherlock, until Mycroft came forward with a solution.  A private party, at a hotel near Hyde Park, from whence they would be able to attend the Coronation Fete and watch the fireworks.  Janet and Clara were hesitant and would have declined except for the entreaties of Georgia, to which John leant his support.  John and Harriet were to attend the Coronation banquet since they were Peers of the Realm, but their spouses and children would only be allowed to sit in the galleries, watching the festivities below.  John wasn't keen to have Sherlock sitting for hours on end in the galleries, watching while John dined, and Harry flatly refused to have Clara and the children subjected to that. Mycroft's plans for their entertainment were practical and promised to provide fun for the entire family, as the younger children and their nanny would join them.  The dining room was secured, a lavish menu planned, and carriages were bespoken  as the plans were set forward.  
  
To John's great surprise, Georgia had taken an instant liking to Mycroft, and the two of them put their heads together over all the details for the party, for which Mycroft had appointed Georgia hostess.  It seemed an unlikely friendship, but as Georgia would explain, Mycroft talked to her as an adult and took everything she said seriously.  It was perhaps as strong as Sherlock and Archie's friendship, although that had something of a mentoring aspect to it.  Georgia refused to be intimidated by Mycroft's manner or his position in the government, and he in turn took each suggestion she proffered with great seriousness.

The day of the Coronation dawned fair and warm, and John and Sherlock were up betimes.  They were to be dressed and at Westminster Hall before ten and a cab had been ordered for nine, to ensure that they made it across town in time.  John pulled his Coronation robes on over his Court suit, an old-fashioned black coat and knee-breeches, with white waistcoat and stockings, then made a face at himself in the mirror.  He thought that he looked a bit ridiculous, too short to pull off the length and weight on the ermine and scarlet robes, and that the coronet would only make it worse.  He sighed and headed down the stairs to their drawing room where Sherlock was waiting.

Of course Sherlock looked gorgeous in the consort's kirtle-style robe and train over his white Court suit, although John thought he also looked a little tired.  He'd been working on a case for the past few days and John knew that he rarely slept when absorbed with one of his puzzles.  However, his eyes lit up as he studied John's appearance which lifted John's spirits considerably.  Mrs. Hudson came up with tea and exclaimed over how nice they looked, then the cab arrived and then they were off.  
  
The Coronation itself was as grand and pompous and, quite frankly, boring as John had expected.  It went on for simply _ages_ , and by the end of it, even the King was looking overheated and exhausted.  John was heartily glad when the ending procession started, and he didn't appear to be alone as many other peers in their heavy finery looked flushed and uncomfortable.  Once they were outside Westminster Abbey, he saw Sherlock, Clara, and Georgia to the carriage arranged by Mycroft, and then he and Harry followed the rest of the peers into the Coronation banquet.  
  
Once inside Westminster Hall, John was absolutely overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd.  Long tables were set with an ostentatious display of plate and cutlery, and dozens of servants moved about with tureens of soup and other delicacies of the first remove.  Up in the galleries, the wives and children of the peers were chattering in loud voices to be heard over the din, and it sounded like nothing so much like a hen-house with a fox set upon it.  On the main floor, the peers who had yet to take their seats were likewise shouting into each other's ears, making the noise nigh on unbearable.  The smell of the food combined with the odour of hundreds of people and the roar of voices quite put John off his dinner. 

He turned to Harriet and found that she was watching the servants pouring out glasses of wine with a pinched look on her face. "Harry, do you think we'd be missed if we decided to slip away from this circus?"  
  
"God, no," Harriet replied, giving him a rueful half-smile.  "I don't think this crowd would notice if the King took himself off.  Lord, what a frightful din!"  
  
"Mycroft was talking of capons and macaroons.  With lobster bisque for the first remove."  
  
"Say no more, I am with you."  
  
They made their way out of Westminster Hall, weaving between those still attempting to enter, and had to make their way toward Westminster bridge before they could find an empty cab.  Once inside, John shed his robes and coronet, chucking both onto the seat beside him, much to Harry's amusement.  
  
"Mother would give you a bear-garden jaw about your treatment of those," Harry pointed out.  
  
"Yeah, well, Mother didn't have to wear the bloody things for nigh on seven hours!" John retorted.  "Lord, I hope I don't have to wear them again for a decade or so."  
  
"The way the King goes on, wouldn't be surprised if he sticks his spoon in a wall sooner rather than later," Harry said prosaically.  She removed her coronet and set it on her lap, using her free hand to ruffle her flattened hair.  "Georgie seems quite take with your brother-in-law," she commented blandly.    
  
"Mycroft has formed a partnership with Gregory Lestrade," John began but Harry waved a dismissal of his words.  
  
"Lord, I know that!  Archie could talk of no one else after Sherlock and Lestrade took him to witness an autopsy."  She shuddered.  "No, I wasn't thinking of a match - he's too old and an Alpha as well.  It's just, well, he's a _Cit_ , isn't he?  Is he the right sort of person for her to associate with?  Or should I allow Clara to forbid the acquaintance?"  
  
John considered this for a moment.  "Harry, I think that if Mycroft Holmes isn't Prime Minister one day, he'll be the power behind the Ministry.  Could be a useful person for Georgie to know, if she has any political interest."  
  
Harry appeared to consider this while she stared out the window, saying nothing more.  They arrived at the hotel where Mycroft was hosting his private party and were greeted with surprise and delight by the members of their family and the friends who had been invited as well.  John was amused by the brief but exuberant hug Georgia gave him before returning to where Mycroft was describing some recent debate in the House of Commons to both her and Lestrade.  He looked around the room and found Sherlock, sitting near one of the large open windows, looking a little pale and tired. 

John was about to go over to speak to his husband when a gentle tug on his arm made him look around.  He was startled to see Mary, and looking around he sighted her mother and grandfather talking with Janet.  
  
"Hello, John," Mary said, giving him a faint smile as she saw the surprise on his face.  "You didn't know that I was here, did you?  There was a time when your eyes would have found me the moment you entered the room."  
  
"It's good to see you, Mary," he said, taking her hand to squeeze it briefly.    
  
"Is it?" she asked baldly.  "You never call at our home, you don't seek me out at balls or assemblies.  Do you even think of me at all?"  
  
John tried to ignore the little voice inside that said that she was right, that he had been avoiding her.  "I am married," he reminded her.  
  
Mary's mouth twisted bitterly.   "I'm not likely to forget that, am I?  Your husband's name is weekly in the papers.  His brother needn't have spent his blunt buying him a husband; if he had waited, Lord Sherlock would have likely achieved a knighthood on his own."  
  
The words stung and John felt himself drawing up, pulling away.  Mary must have sensed it, too, for her expression softened and she laid her hand on his sleeve.  
  
"That  was cruel - forgive me, John?"  Her eyes were shining with tears and her tone so sincere that John could do nothing else.  "I can't help being bitter, you see, when I think of the future we might have had.  Sometimes I hate my grandfather," she admitted.  "If Father had lived, he would have allowed us to marry in India.  He was very fond of you, you know.  'The best and brightest of the medicos', he said, and predicted that you'd be Surgeon General one day."  
  
John tried to recall the young man he'd been, the one who had wanted such a position, who had been desperately unhappy to leave the army, but it was like a ghostly image.  To have done that but never to have partnered with Sherlock on their adventures?  What would have happened to Sherlock and Henry at Baskerville if he hadn't been there to protect them?  What about the cab driver - would he have killed Sherlock?  And what of the exhilaration of their adventures, the things he would have missed?  He felt guilty, though, for  putting his own pleasure about Mary's happiness.  
  
"I might be married myself, soon," Mary said, bringing John abruptly into the present.  
  
"What?  To whom?"  He tried to remember if he'd heard gossip about Mary with anyone in particular.  
  
"Does it matter?" she asked.  "I must marry someone, or remain a burden to Mother and Grandfather.  That's the only option for women like me, that, or be a governess to someone else's children or someone's paid companion."    
  
"Of course it matters," John said.    
  
"His name is Major David Gordon, with one of the Highland regiments.  Grandfather is pleased, says that David will rise in the ranks.  If he asks me, I mean to say 'yes'.  Shall you care if I do?  Will it pain you, as it pained me when you married?"  
  
John frowned, thinking that it was unkind for Mary to say that, knowing what his situation had been.  
  
"I'll make an excellent soldier's wife," Mary said.  "I would have made an excellent soldier myself, I think, if I'd been allowed.  I always was the best at our shooting parties in India, remember?"  She turned and walked away.  
  
John did remember, painfully so.  He was relieved to hear Janet querulously demanding to know when they were going to the fireworks, certain that were missing _Something_ , that others would have secured the best spots for viewing.  Mycroft genially replied that they were just ready to start and effortless gathered up the crowd, shepherding them towards the doorway.

As the party eagerly headed down the stairs, keen to observe the festivities and fireworks, John noticed that Sherlock was doing his best not to be noticed, slipping into the back room of the suite.  John hesitated for a moment, uncertain if Sherlock just wanted to have a few minutes of peace or if he was about to slip away for a case.  Then he recalled that Sherlock had been looking pulled and wan over the past few days.  He had put it down to the unusual heat but now he wondered if his husband was ill.  Instead of following the party, he turned back to the rooms and followed Sherlock.    
  
He found Sherlock lying on one of the daybeds, his handkerchief pressed against his lips, and hurried forward in alarm.  "You are ill!  What is it?  What's wrong?"  
  
"It's nothing," Sherlock said faintly, waving him away.  "It's the heat, nothing more.  Don't fuss.  Go on with the others."  
  
John ignored his words, dropping to sit on the edge of the chaise so that he could take Sherlock's pulse.  It was a trifle fast but nothing of concern.  He frowned, trying to remember when was the last time he'd seen Sherlock eat anything.  Everything had been so rushed that morning, and he hadn't seen Sherlock do more than nibble at some macaroons since he'd arrived.  
  
"When was the last time you ate?  Today?  Yesterday?  I'll get you a plate - "  
  
Sherlock's colour became bilious and he hastily pressed the handkerchief tighter against his mouth.  "Don't mention food!" he begged.  
  
"You _are_ ill!" John said, alarmed by this reaction.  "I will fetch a carriage to take you home - "  
  
"No!" Sherlock said sharply.  "I won't have anyone fussing over me!"  
  
"Even me?  I thought you liked my cosseting, especially when you're bored and can get me to bring tea to you, " John said, teasing him.  Sherlock smiled faintly and John said, "That's better.  Let me see if I can find something to help."  
  
He went back into the dining room, looking among the bottles and flasks for a cordial that he'd thought he'd seen, one he knew would settle a delicate stomach.  He brought it back to Sherlock and poured a small amount in a glass.  
  
"Sit up just a bit and drink this, for me," he said coaxingly. 

Sherlock reluctantly acquiesced, sipping at the cordial, and John was relieved to see a bit of colour come back into his cheeks.  
  
"That's better," John said approvingly.  "Now, won't you tell me what the matter is?  You've been out of sorts lately, don't think I haven't noticed.  Are Georgie and Archie vexing you to death?  You've been very good with them, taking them about London, but is it too much?"  
  
"Of course it isn't," Sherlock said crossly.  "If you _must_ know, I am increasing." 

John stared at Sherlock in stunned silence for so long that Sherlock sighed and said, irritably, "That means that I'm pregnant, John."  
  
"I know what it means," John said, dazed.  "It's just - I don't understand how - "  
  
Sherlock's lips twitched.  "Really, John - at your age, I would think that you knew where babies come from!  And I don't see what's so funny.  One would think that you'd be pleased."  
  
John clapped his hand over his mouth, trying to control his inappropriate giggling.  "Sorry - it's just that - really, Sherlock!  To fling it at me like that, without warning."  He reached out to take Sherlock's hand in his.  "I _am_ pleased.  Of course I am.  Surprised, but pleased.  So - at Baskerville?"  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock said sourly.  "Possibly something in Stapleton's compound brought it on, or the presence of Beryl Stapleton accelerated my cycle."  
  
"Right.  Of course.  It - well, it does explain a few things."  Like Sherlock's irritability during the week prior to their trip to Baskerville, his sudden interest in consummating their marriage, and other intimate details of that night.  And there was the way John had reacted while under the influence of that drug, shaking off the fear and becoming aggressive when Sherlock was threatened.  "Why didn't you say anything?  And how the devil am I going to get you home?"  
  
Sherlock snorted.  "I'll go home when the party is over and not before!  _Or_ when I get bored.  I told you, John, I won't have anyone fussing over me.  And not  a word to Mycroft!"  
  
Startled, John said, "Why not?  You don't mean to keep it a secret, do you - and from your brother of all people?"  
  
"Yes, I do," Sherlock said decisively.  "You don't know what he's like, John.  He worries about me - constantly.  The minute he finds out, he'll have doctors and bodyguards and lord knows who else swarming all over Baker Street!  He'll drive me _insane_ , John - and he'll insist that I stop taking cases."  
  
John could certainly understand that, although he also knew that the boredom would drive Sherlock insane, probably taking John with him.  "Who else knows about this?"  
  
"Wiggins - he could hardly avoid noticing when I've been tossing up accounts most mornings."  As John looked at him in concern, Sherlock said, "That's the worst of it, I swear, John."  
  
John was relieved that Wiggins knew, at least, since the young man would hardly let Sherlock get into mischief now that he knew the truth of things.  "Very well," he said, reluctantly.  "But you will tell me if you feel amiss in any way?"  
  
"Of course," Sherlock said, nodding.  "In any account, it's early days still, and there's no sense in fretting over something that may not come about.  So just forget about all this or I'll regret telling you."  
  
John rolled his eyes.  "I think that's asking too much of me, Sherlock!  Haven't I got a part in all this?"  
  
Sherlock gave him a sudden mirthful look, one of his all-too-rare and genuine smiles.  "Indeed, and you played your part quite well, as I remember."  
  
"Sherlock!" John said, attempting to be scandalised but in reality he couldn't help giggling as well.  "This lack of delicacy!"  
  
"If you wanted someone with a delicate nature, you're right out of it, as you well know.  Now, pour me a bit more of that cordial and then we'll go join the others."  
  
John couldn't help worrying, though, and kept a watchful eye on Sherlock while pretending to be absorbed by the firework display.  His husband appeared to have rallied, discussing the finer aspects of pyrotechnics with Archie, making John worry about what the pair of them would try to blow up.  Sherlock was, however, quite noticeably avoiding Mycroft, although perhaps John was the only one who saw that.  At one point, Mary came over to say something to him about taking their leave but John only heard her words with half an ear, nodding absently in response and not even offering to flag a cab as he naturally would have.  
  
Instead, he made sure to be at Sherlock's elbow when the party broke up for evening, handing him into the carriage personally instead of allowing the footman to do so.  And when he lay on his bed that night, instead of dwelling on Mary's announcement of her prospective nuptials, he was instead absorbed with worry about Sherlock and not a little trepidation about becoming a father within the year.

 


	34. Part III: Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Season winds to a close and three cases from the past are revisited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have artwork! [Cleo_Calliope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope) created a lovely [Cover for Watson's Folly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3833656)! I am tickled pink by this, and everyone should take a look at it.

Once Coronation was over, the Season's festivities in London began to dwindle as the upper class prepared for the Glorious Twelfth and the exodus to the countryside.  London gossip was almost entirely centred on the Queen, who had fallen gravely ill following the Coronation.  Some said it was in pique for having been publicly banned from the Coronation, some whispered of foul play since the King hadn't been able to secure a divorce, and still others spoke of the fruits of sin.  Privately, John heard from Stamford who knew the Queen's physician that it was an intestinal blockage and that there was little that could be done for her.    
  
Society hostesses whose entertainments had been planned for the end of the Season began watching the palace with anxious eyes, worried that a period of national mourning would bring their elaborate plans to naught, and John found their entry table suddenly inundated with invitations as the Season spun to a frenetic close.  He was more than happy to reject the majority of them, accepting only the small soiree that the Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy was hosting before Harry and the family returned to Scotland.  When the matter was set before Sherlock, he agreed with John's decision - although the fact that he was absorbed with dissecting a diseased eyeball that Molly had loaned to him may have had something to do with his distracted and irritated reply.    
  
John's decision to avoid most Society functions was affirmed by the presence of both Lord Moriarty and Mary Morstan at every important event.  It seemed that everywhere John went, every time he turned around, he found Lord Moriarty holding court over a bevy of admirers.  But he could not like the man; there was _something_ about him that made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up.  Lord Moriarty didn't seem to feel the same, seeking out John and Sherlock at every public event they attended.  And Sherlock didn't seem to find Moriarty as repellent as John did, watching him intently whenever he was there, another thing that disquieted John.  So he was more than happy to avoid Moriarty whenever possible, and to decline any event where Moriarty might be found holding court.  
  
Mary was a different subject entirely.  After the scene at the Coronation party, John felt uncomfortable being around her, even if it was across the room at a party.  She was clearly unhappy and he felt guilty for being the cause of it, especially since he had come to terms with his marriage to Sherlock and could do nothing to help her.  He also felt some resentment towards her, for it hurt that she blamed _him_ for trying to make his marriage tolerable.  It wasn't fair to her, but John had never claimed to be perfect.

John was therefore relieved when he saw that neither Mary nor Lord Moriarty were among the guests at the Dowager's soiree.  In fact, the guests were small in number and agreeable in character, and he began looking forward to the evening with pleasure.  Sherlock was in fine fettle, looking well-turned-out in a new plum and silver ensemble, although John thought his face looked a bit pale and thin.  John was pleased to hand him off to Clara to be introduced to some of her particular friends while he did the pretty to her mother.    
  
The Dowager Countess was looking particularly lovely in a diaphanous cerise dress that suited her colouring and slender figure.  She accepted his complement on her dress and his kiss on her cheek with a slight blush and a rap of her fan on his hand.  "Don't puff off your pretty ways with me, John Watson!" she said, although he could see that she was delighted by his attention.  "I knew you when you were in short pants!"  
  
"Speaking of pretty ways, Aunt Margaret," John said, "I'm surprised not to see Lord Moriarty and his husband among your guests.  He seems to be at the centre of every party lately."  
  
"That's as may be, but you won't find them sitting down to my table or drinking my claret," the Dowager said firmly.  "For all his pretty ways, there's a taint in the Moriarty bloodline, and both of them have it.  I wouldn't allow Clara to marry Colonel Moran when he asked for her hand, either."  
  
John looked at her in surprise, not aware that anyone else had courted Clara but Harry.  "When was this?"  
  
"While we were still living in Dublin - 1803 it was.  My James had been personal secretary to the Lord Lieutenants for twenty years by then, and although Clara was only 15 and not yet out, we allowed her to attend a few Society events.  Young Moran was very charming but wild - his father packed him off to the army shortly afterwards.  Clara's feelings were not engaged, but even so, Lord Dalmahoy and I decided that I should take her back to Edinburgh so as to not tempt fate."  The Dowager glanced across the room to where Harry and Clara were engaged in separate conversations, and sighed.  "Little did I know that Harriet would be more persistent in her courting, or that I would never see James and my youngest children again in this world."  At John's questioning look she said, "They died of the influenza epidemic that same year, in Dublin, while Clara and I were in Edinburgh."  
  
John was silent, not knowing quite what to say to that, and after a moment, the Dowager gave him a tremulous smile.  "But enough of my mawkishness!  Have some claret - I had Cook make those macaroons you love.  And take some of the ginger biscuits to your husband.  When I was carrying Clara, it was nearly the only food I could keep down in the mornings, and Clara was the same.  If he takes to them, I'll send your housekeeper the receipt.  He should find them particularly useful while travelling."  
  
John gave her a startled look.  "Sherlock told you?"  
  
"No, but it is clear enough if you know how to look," she replied, amusement gleaming in her eyes.  "Your husband isn't the only one who can read certain signs on other people. You are refraining from letting it become common knowledge until after your return from Scotland?"  
  
John nodded.  "Sherlock is reluctant to say aught until things have progressed a bit further."  
  
"I doubt that he has anything to worry about, although he is a bit thin for my liking.  He isn't one of those who follow the fad for nothing but cucumber sandwiches and lemon water for meals, is he?"  
  
"His appetite has always been delicate, and I am afraid he is finding his condition exacerbates the problem," John admitted.  "If your remedy assists in that, I will be forever grateful.  You know that I have always valued your advice and good judgement."  
  
"Making a May game of me?" she retorted, once more rapping him with her fan.  
  
"I wouldn't dare.  You're too wise to the time of day for that," he said with a laugh,  then added, "Seeing that you know the Colonel, do you have any notion how he got his hooks into my brother, James?  I would have thought him too fly to be caught out by a gamester."  
  
"Oh, Colonel Moran can be a charmer when he wishes, but the truth lies in the eyes."  
  
John thought about that, about how Moran's eyes reminded him of a tiger he'd seen stalking its prey in India.  "There _is_ something queer about him, and Lord Moriarty as well." he admitted to her.  "I've felt it although I can't say why.  They always seem da- dashed pleased to see me, which turns my stomach."  
  
The Dowager patted his hand.  "You have good instincts, my dear.  There is more you should know but not tonight, for here comes your husband."  
  
John turned to see that Sherlock was indeed approaching him, a determined gleam in his eye, for the musicians had struck up a waltz.  John sighed but surrendered with good grace, whirling his husband around the floor and allowing all thoughts of Lord Moriarty and his husband to fade from his mind.

* * *

The following week, an urgent message came to them from a young Beta who had sought Sherlock's advice before taking a position as governess to a young boy in Essex.  Miss Violet Hunter's qualms were in regard to two of the requirements of the position - that she cut her hair quite short and take on a man's role in the household's private theatricals.  It appeared that her unease regarding the situation had borne fruit, and she feared that her employer was keeping his son a prisoner, or had even disposed of him, and was employing her to pretend to be him for anyone looking in on the estate.  A quick check with the Probate Court told Sherlock that her employer's first wife had left her Omega son, Alistair, a considerable fortune, but it was under the control of his father.  John and Sherlock hurried to Chelmsford, taking lodgings in one of the inns while Sherlock inquired after the young man's current whereabouts.  When he discovered that the young man hadn't been seen for weeks, the situation began to look ominous. 

That night, with the aid of Miss Hunter, John and Sherlock entered the house while her employers were away from home and broke into the secret room that Miss Hunter had discovered.  However, the nest was empty for the young man's fiancée, an Alpha woman of steadfast devotion and unwavering courage, had already rescued him by way of bribing the housekeeper to allow her access to the house.  Knowing that the young man was safe, John and Sherlock waited to face down the young Omega's father to bring him to account for his misdeeds.  However, the man became livid and attempted to loose the watch-dog on them, only to become victim to the vicious brute himself.  John had done his best to save the man's life, but the man would bear the scars from his evil deeds to the end of his life.

John insisted on escorting Miss Hunter back to London, not wanting to trust her former employers to see to her future, but it was Sherlock who came up with a solution for Violet's most pressing need: a situation.  By happy circumstance, Clara had mentioned at the Dowager's soiree that Archie's current governess was getting married.  Impressed with Miss Hunter's cool head in an emergency and with her intelligence, Sherlock recommended her to Clara and, as she and Archie had taken to each other immediately, Miss Hunter was hired and her future assured, at least until Archie went to University.

John wrote up the case, carefully changing a few particulars of the story, and it was eagerly snapped up by the Strand for its readers.   Sherlock rolled his eyes over John's romanticizing of the case but had nothing else to complain about.

In any case, his attention was soon focused on the trial of Carruthers, Woodley, and Williams, the three villains in the case that John called the Solitary Walker.  It was also the first case where Sherlock was allowed to testify for the prosecution, and although he tried to act nonchalant, John could tell that he was quivering with nerves - both good and bad.  He accompanied Sherlock to court where they were shown to one of the anterooms - a courtesy extended to Sherlock as an Omega, but also to shield him from the harsh realities of the courtroom, which made Sherlock grind his teeth.  As his Alpha, John was allowed to remain with him instead of waiting in the courtroom, although he wasn't sure if his presence was making Sherlock feel better as the man paced back and forth.  
  
Finally, the door opened and one of the clerks stuck his head in.  "Five minutes, Lord Sherlock," he said before closing the door again.  
  
Sherlock muttered something that might have been "Oh God!" and ran his hands anxiously through his hair.  John crossed to him, pulling his hands away before he could wreck his carefully arranged locks, and straightened his cravat.  
  
"It'll be fine," he said firmly, reassuringly.  "You remember what they told you."  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently, fidgeting as John tugged the snowy folds of his cravat into place.  
  
"Be simple and brief, and don't try to be clever."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "God forbid that the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent."  
  
"Intelligent is fine," John said. "Smart-arse is not on, though.  Yes?"  
  
"I'll just be myself."  
  
"Sherlock!"  John grasped him by the lapels of his superfine coat, forcing him to stand still and meet his eyes.  "Are you listening to me?  I am serious.  You have been waiting _your whole life_ for this, for the opportunity to appear as an expert witness in court.  And most of the people sitting in that courtroom are certain that you will _fail_ , because you're an Omega.  You want that?  To prove them right?"  
  
Sherlock drew in a deep, shuddery breath.  "What if I do fail, John?" he asked, and his uncertainty made him look younger than his twenty-eight years.  
  
"You won't," John said firmly.  "You are brilliant and you are articulate, and _I don't give a single damn_ that you are an Omega because you're just as clever as every one of those lawyers.  You will give your testimony - and only your testimony, no deductions, mind! - and prove that Omegas are just as capable as anyone else.  And those fuckers won't be able to deny you admittance to a hearing or a trial ever again."  
  
Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John's face as he talked and he seemed to visibly relax.  One corner of his mouth crooked up with a smile.   "Language, John," he admonished.  "We are in court, after all."  
  
John laughed and a moment later Sherlock joined him.    
  
The clerk returned, escorting them into the courtroom.  John sat in their appointed chairs, watching as Sherlock was escorted to the dock and sworn in.  Sherlock looked utterly composed, as if he hadn't been pacing a few minutes earlier, and he gave his testimony regarding the events that had transpired since Violet Smith hired him.  As an unmarried Omega, Miss Smith wasn't permitted to appear in court, although she had given her deposition to one of the clerks prior to the trial.  The prosecution was relying on Sherlock's testimony, and judging by the smirk on the face of  the barrister defending Mr Woodley, he clearly expected Sherlock to fail.  (Mr Carruthers had pleaded guilty and turned Crown witness to reduce his sentence, and Mr Williams refused to defend his actions, calling on God alone to judge him.)  
  
Sherlock, for once, appeared to have listened to John for he gave a clear and concise accounting of the case, particularly the facts that had led him to his conclusion and their rescue of Miss Smith from a forced bonding.  Woodley's barrister tried to catch him during the cross-examination, and Sherlock had corrected the barrister once only to be admonished by the judge.  Sherlock was clearly irritated by the judge's condescending tone and John thought he was on the verge of an outburst - probably deducing the entire jury's history.  However, John managed to catch his eye and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut, his deductions as to the jury's misdeeds unvoiced.  By the time Sherlock was dismissed, the defence's barrister was slumped in abject defeat while the prosecution was barely hiding a triumphant smirk.  
  
John was called upon, briefly, to corroborate the events of the rescue that had culminated in Carruther's shooting of Woodley, and then jury adjourned to consider the matter.  They were only out for fifteen minutes before returned with a verdict:  Woodley and Williams were found guilty on all counts and sentenced to ten years each, while Carruther's plea of guilty to a lesser count was accepted  and he was given leniency, with strict instructions to stay away from Miss Smith.   
  
John could hardly wait to get clear of the courtroom so that he could congratulate Sherlock, although it seemed that many others also wanted to do the same - including a journalist that John recognized from the worst of the broadsides.    Miss Kitty Riley, a Beta woman in a field dominated by Alpha and Beta men, could perhaps be forgiven for her desire to make a name for herself, but her methods put up John's back and made him give strict orders to the household that she was not allowed within the walls of Baker Street.  She had worked her way to Sherlock's side before John could get to him, although it was clear from the frustrated look on her face that Sherlock had managed to shut her down on his own.  Still, he was glad to whisk Sherlock out of the building and into a cab.  
  
"You were brilliant," John told Sherlock as soon as he'd given the jarvey their address.  "Bloody amazing!"  
  
Sherlock coloured slightly.   "Really, John, there is no need for his hyperbole," he reprimanded lightly.  "I merely stated the facts."  
  
"Yes, you did," John said with satisfaction.  "You were clear and concise - you didn't faint or stammer which I warrant half the court expected of an Omega.  Nor did you act like a smart arse, and thank you very much for that."

Sherlock preened under this praise, expanding upon his deductions in the case for the benefit of John's case notes.  Thus it was that they arrived back at Baker Street in a very good mood, full of plans for a good dinner and a quiet night before the fire in their sitting room.

All of those plans were dashed within minutes of their entrance into their home.

John picked up the mail, opening a note from the Dowager.  "The Dalmahoy party got off in good style yesterday, according to the Dowager.  She was to follow today in her own carriage, with a few stops to visit old friends along the way.  We will probably reach Saughton before she manages to make her way there."

"She is doing well for her age after the excesses of the other night."  
  
"Quite well - and you do realize that she is only a dozen years older than I am?" John said, amused, as he extracted a card folded in the note.  "She also sent the receipt for those ginger biscuits you liked."   
  
Sherlock snatched the card, his eyes running over the directions.  "Excellent.  I'll give this to Mrs Hudson - "  He paused and lifted his head, his nostrils flaring as he turned, scenting the air.  "Why in bloody hell is _she_ here?" he demanded, turning towards the staircase.  
  
"Who, Mrs Hudson?" John asked, bewildered, following as Sherlock climbed the stairs, two at a time.    
  
Sherlock ignored him, bypassing the first floor to continue up to the next level.  He opened the door to his room, pausing in the doorway as John caught up with him.  There, lying sound asleep on Sherlock's bed, was Irene Adler.  She had apparently availed herself of their bathing facilities, for her damp hair was tumbled over the pillows and she was dressed in Sherlock's second-best dressing gown.  Sherlock closed the door and turned away.  
  
"What is she doing here?" John demanded.  "Did you know that she was coming?"  
  
"No," Sherlock said shortly, returning to the first floor and their sitting room.  "After our last meeting, I doubted we would ever see her again.  I wonder why...."  He paused, frowning as he leaned against the mantle, drumming his fingers on it.  "Of course!" he said suddenly, straightening up and turning to John.  "The Queen has died."  
  
"Early this morning," said a voice from the doorway, and both men turned to see Irene standing there, watching them.  There were shadows under her eyes, ones that hadn't been banished by her nap.  "I am desperate for assistance.  I have been unable to leave the country.  My house has been searched, my servants arrested, my bank accounts frozen.  I didn't know where else to go."  
  
John crossed his arms, staring at her in irritation.  "I see that you've made free with our bathing chamber."  
  
"Yes," Irene replied, smirking slightly at him.  "Very ingenious - do I sense Mycroft Holmes' influence there?  I'm astonished that you allow him to meddle in your own home."  She tilted her head slightly.  "Or is it truly yours?"  
  
John flushed, still able to be ruffled by the recollection of how much he owed the older Holmes.  "You're also wearing my husband's dressing gown," he said flatly.  
  
"I'd give it back, but I'm not wearing anything under it, which I doubt you'd find an improvement," she said, amusement clear on her face.  "My own clothing was damaged beyond repair during my escape from my pursuers."  
  
"I'm certain that Mrs Hudson will be able to come up with an acceptable substitute," John retorted.    
  
"Excellent idea, John," Sherlock said, speaking up for the first time since her entrance. "Mrs Hudson!" he shouted.

John rolled his eyes but refrained from admonishing Sherlock for shouting instead of pulling the bell.  Irene Adler's presence made him uncomfortable, and he had the distinct impression that she did not like Alphas.

Mrs Hudson appeared, goggling at Irene.  "Here, how did you get in the house?" she demanded.  "And walking about dressed like that - it's not decent!"

"Yes, very astute, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said impatiently.  "Perhaps you could procure something more suitable from the maid - no, that won't do, she's too short."

"You could lend me something of yours," Irene suggested to Sherlock, her eyes gleaming and a bit of a smile on her full lips.  "It wouldn't be the first time I've worn men's clothing."

"I remember," Sherlock said shortly.  "Yes, fine, help yourself - you clearly know the way."  He turned back to Mrs Hudson as Irene strode out of the room, the skirt of the dressing gown swirling around her legs.  "Tea, Mrs Hudson?  Miss Adler must be thirsty and John is perishing for a cuppa.  Oh, and the Dowager Dalmahoy sent this receipt for her ginger biscuits.  I found them quite tolerable."

"Very well, Sherlock," she replied, taking the note-card, but John could see that she was still put-out about Irene's presence.  "And will the Young Lady be staying with us for some time?  It's only that we haven't a spare room to put her in."

"She may have Wiggins' room for the night," Sherlock said.  Mrs Hudson pursed her lips but went off to fetch the tea.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.  "And where do you intend for Wiggins to sleep tonight?  He's a trifle large to fit in the bath, although I suppose he could sleep on the sofa."

Sherlock carefully avoided looking at John.  "I thought he might have your bed, and that you might sleep in my bed.  For the night."

John willed away any inclination to blush; Sherlock was not in heat now and no doubt wished for simple companionship.  Or protection against Miss Adler wandering in the night.  He decided that he would not read any more into it and allow Sherlock to make any overtures.

Irene returned, dressed in Sherlock's buckskin trousers and one of his gleaming white shirts, her feet bare and no cravat around her throat.  John hastily averted his eyes from her bare flesh, clearing his throat as he invited her to sit on the couch.  She smirked slightly at his  discomfort before sitting down, but quickly adopted a more serious expression.  Mrs. Hudson brought in the tea, leaving John to pour out while she saw to dinner.

"Now, Miss Adler," Sherlock began, sitting in his own chair and crossing his legs.  "You have come here seeking our help.  What is it that you believe we can do for you?"

"I need help leaving England," she said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees as she met Sherlock's eyes forthrightly, as easy in her borrowed men's clothing as another woman might have been in skirts.  "I can't purchase a passage on the Mail for Southampton as the inn at Charing Cross is being watched, and I have no private means to reach the coast to take a ship."

"And what makes you think that we will lend our aid?  After our last meeting, we would be much more inclined to turn you over to the authorities to deal with."

"I have done nothing wrong," Irene said firmly.  "Except for loving the wrong person and in trusting to her promises."

"A married woman and the Queen," John reminded her.  "In former times, what you did would be considered treason, no matter Her presentation.  Not to mention illegal."

Irene's lips twisted.  "What I did is against the law simply because Alphas wish to keep Omegas as their exclusive property, but the heart loves where it will."  She sighed and sat back on the sofa.  "But I did not come to argue with you.  I came for help.  And as to reasons why you should help..."  She reached into the front of the shirt, pulling out a packet of letters tied with a ribbon.  "Here.  These are yours to do with as you will."

Sherlock took the packet of letters, glancing over them quickly to ascertain that they were the ones they wanted, then he handed them to John.  "You do realize that now that we have the letters, we could still turn you over."

"And violate his precious Alpha honour?" she asked, jerking her head toward John.  "He wouldn't.  He _couldn't_."

Sherlock glanced over at John, then acknowledged the truth of her words with a nod.  "If we help you escape England, what are your intentions?"

"I have funds in a bank in Switzerland and property in Italy.  I swear that I will never again set foot in England, but beyond that, my life is my own and none of your business," she said, raising her chin defiantly at the end.

"Acceptable," Sherlock said.  "We will send Wiggins to the inn in the morning to obtain your passage, ostensibly for himself.  You will switch places with him, dressed in his clothing.  That should be enough to mislead anyone looking for you.  You will carry a carpet bag with a change of clothing - women's - and when you reach Calais, you will change and proceed as a lady's maid on holiday.  Mrs Hudson will procure whatever items you need for your trip, if you will make a list."

"Thank you," Irene said warmly. 

Feeling that the sooner these plans were put into place the better, John rang for the maid who escorted Irene to the housekeeper's room so they could see about fitting her in Wiggins' spare clothes, as well as a dress befitting a lady's maid.  Once she was gone, John turned to his husband.

"Sherlock," he said, hesitantly, unsure if he had missed something.  "Surely she could have arranged such a disguise without our help."

"Most certainly," Sherlock replied.  "She is genuinely afraid that she will be apprehended but she must have other resources to which she could turn."

"Then you think she came here for other reasons."

"Yes, although I can't quite pinpoint what they are."  He steepled his fingers under his chin.  "I shall give the matter some thought."

Knowing that this meant that he should keep silent or make himself scarce, John settled at his desk and began writing up the case of the Solitary Walker, now that the court case had ended.  But his thoughts were not fully on his writing.  Instead, he found himself puzzling over what could be Irene Adler's true reason for seeking their help.  He could come to no conclusions, though, and hoped that Sherlock was more successful.

Irene returned to the sitting room in remarkably high spirits as Mrs Hudson and the maid brought in dinner.  Over their shared meal, Irene proved to be a lively conversationalist, amusing them with mildly scandalous tales from her travels.  By tacit agreement anything to do with the late Queen or their letters was avoided, which still seemed to leave a great many stories in her repertoire.  On her part, Irene was fascinated by Sherlock's cases - or rather, the way that he solved the cases.  (Her lack of interest in the stories themselves as penned by John couldn't have been more obvious if she had stated it out loud.)  She asked Sherlock many questions about the details of the cases, particularly the one dealing with the cabbie poisonings, and while Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently at some of them, he answered - which, for Sherlock, was unusual.  John was usually the only person to whom Sherlock didn't mind explaining case details - or he had been.  John sat and listened and worried, finding little appetite for his meal.

Finally the interminable evening was over.  John rang the bell for the maid to clear the table and set about checking that the doors and windows were secure, as usual.  He  was reluctant to leave Irene alone with his husband for long so he hurried through his nightly routine, then went back upstairs to the sitting room.  He stopped in the doorway, taking in the change in the setting since he'd left. Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, a slight frown on his face, but Irene was kneeling in front of him, looking up into his face with an earnest look that twisted something inside of John.  Her hand was resting on top of Sherlock's, on his knee.  
  
" - see the world - in person, not in paintings or books!  Not through someone else's words!  France, Italy, India, the Orient!  Colours and scents and sounds - and you could be part of it!  Not sitting here, working for _them_!" Irene said passionately, earnestly.  "You're clever.  You could belong _to yourself_ , not some brainless Alpha who'll tie you to the hearth and cradle."  
  
John's heart froze in his chest as he realized that Irene was trying to coax Sherlock to leave him, to run away with her, and that neither of them aware that he was standing there, listening.  His stomach clenched, as he did his fists, but he couldn't get any sound past his suddenly tight throat.  
  
"John's not like that," Sherlock said, his voice sounding strained.  "He appreciates my cleverness."  
  
Irene made a scoffing sound.  "Perhaps now, but he wants to get you into his bed, to put a baby in your belly, like all Alphas.  Once that happens, he'll stop caring about your mind."    
  
Sherlock's hand moved, involuntarily, to rest over his abdomen.    
  
Irene drew in a sharp breath, pulling her hand away and sitting back on her heels.  "He's already done it, hasn't he?" she asked, disbelieving.  "You let him _have you_? - an ordinary, dreary, dull _Alpha_!   With all the world at your feet, _that_ is what you chose?"  
  
John saw Sherlock close his eyes, as if he couldn't face her censure, and he was suddenly, blazingly angry at Irene Adler.  Afraid that he would be tempted for the first time in his life to do violence to an Omega, he turned and went upstairs to his room.

Wiggins was waiting there when he arrived and belatedly John remembered that he was to sleep in Sherlock's room that night.  He stripped off his coat and waistcoat, handing them to Wiggins to take care of, taking deep breaths to control the equal parts anger and fear consuming him.  By the time he had pulled on his nightshirt and dressing gown, he felt his emotions were mostly under control.

John opened the door to Sherlock's bedchamber and saw that he had not yet come up to bed.  For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should return to his own room and let Wiggins find a bed elsewhere, but he had never fled in the face of a fight and he wasn't starting now.  John set his candle on the night table, placed his dressing gown across the end of the bed, then slid under the covers.  He turned onto his side and attempted to find sleep. 

It wasn't long before the adjoining door opened and Sherlock came into the room, also dressed for sleeping.  He was silent as he set down his candle and shed his robe, taking his place on the other side of the bed.  For several long minutes there was silence, and then John couldn't bear it any longer. 

He turned onto his back, looking over at his husband's still form in the dark.  "Sherlock - " he began, but didn't know how to finish.  There was silence for another long moment.  "She's wrong," he said, finally, certain that Sherlock knew that he'd been there, that he'd overheard.  "I think you're brilliant, and I always will.  I never want to make you into just a vessel for my children."  He wished that he could tell Sherlock that he'd give him his freedom if he wanted it, but the truth was that he couldn't do something that would lead to the ruin of Sherlock's reputation.  And he had to believe that Sherlock hadn't changed his mind about his lack of interest in the Adler woman.

Sherlock turned onto his back also, not looking at him.  "I know.  I can't say that I'm not tempted at the thought of travelling the world but I am happy with the Work, with my life here."

"We could travel.  Once the child is old enough," John said.  "Engage a nanny.  Do the Grand Tour - maybe go to India or to China.  If you want.  I know I'm not clever like Irene but - "

"Hush," Sherlock said, rolling onto his side and placing his fingers over John's mouth.  "You are not as idiotic as most and I have found your contributions invaluable to my work."

"As a conductor of light, so you've said."

"More than that, John.  You have a steadiness of disposition that provides an anchor for my own moods.  You are fearless in the face of danger, as the Baskerville case proved, and you have a core of integrity which provides my moral compass.  Could anyone ask for better from their life's companion?"

John, inexplicably, found his throat tight with emotion.  "Thank you," he managed to say.  "I feel....  You know that you saved my life.  In so many ways."

"Might I ask a favour, then?"

"I would be prepared to give you anything you wished," John said honestly.  "Even the Crown Jewels, though they might be difficult to obtain."

"Not to mention gaudy - and what on earth would I do with them?  Nor do I relish bearing this child alone while you reside in gaol," Sherlock said caustically.

John couldn't help giggling at the silliness of their conversation and he was joined by Sherlock's deep laugh.  "What do you wish?" John asked when they finally controlled their mirth.

"Merely to rest within your arms tonight," Sherlock said, leaning up on his elbow to look down at John.  "I often have difficulty sleeping, the exception being the two nights that I slept close to you."

Wordlessly, John held out his arm, inviting Sherlock to rest his head on his good shoulder.  Sherlock curled up against him and gave a little sigh of contentment.  Within a few minutes, he had fallen asleep, as easily and trusting as a child.  John’s arm, wrapped around Sherlock, tightened involuntarily and he turned his head to press his nose against Sherlock’s hair. The scent of his Omega mixed with another scent that was new and earthy stirred something deep inside of John, some primal instinct that relished having his mate and child so close.  A knot of anxiety that he hadn’t even been aware was inside of him began unravelling. For the first time in months, he felt at peace.

After pressing a kiss against his sleeping husband’s hair, he closed his eyes and followed him into slumber.


	35. Part III: Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler bids them a final farewell, with a warning to John, and Sherlock's secret is discovered.

Sherlock was still asleep when John woke the next morning, an event so unusual that John was momentarily uncertain as to how to proceed.  After a moment's contemplation, he decided that Sherlock looked so peaceful in slumber that he would let him rest while John handled the Adler Issue.  Quietly, John got out of bed and donned his dressing gown and slippers, then made his way through the connecting door to his own bedchamber.  Wiggins was already gone and the bed neatly made, but as John looked at it, he hoped that he wouldn't be sleeping there many nights in the future.  It had been surprisingly soothing to sleep next to Sherlock last night, to hear the steady beat of his heart, and at the core of his being he felt the need to remain close.  
  
He washed and dressed, then went down to the first floor sitting room to ring for breakfast.  Not entirely to his surprise, he found Irene sitting there, in Sherlock's chair, sipping a cup of tea.  She was dressed in what he recognized as one of Wiggins' sets of clothing, with a soft cap to hide her hair sitting on the desk, ready to be donned.  She gave him a long look and then gestured toward the table.  
  
"Tea's still hot."  
  
John poured himself a cup, adding cream from the pitcher, then sat in his own chair.  "Ready to start for home, then?" he asked.  "Wiggins should be returning with your coach ticket shortly."  
  
"Where's Sherlock?" Irene asked, ignoring his question.  
  
"Sleeping," John replied, keeping his expression bland but allowing steel to enter his voice.  After what he'd witnessed the previous night, he was going to do his best to keep her from further upsetting Sherlock.   "He needs his rest these days.  He'll be sorry to have missed your departure but I'll be sure to pass on your farewells."  
  
Irene bristled.  "You don't own him."  
  
That was such a ridiculous thought that John barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.  "Of course not.  But I can, and _will_ , protect him as much as is possible."  
  
She frowned, looking puzzled by his reply.  "You let him go on dangerous cases, though."  
  
John snorted.  "I'd like to see anyone stop him.  And of course I do - it's his Work."  
  
"He says it the same way," Irene said slowly, watching him.  "You can almost hear the capital letter at the start."  
  
Anything John might have said in reply was lost as Wiggins swept into the room, brandishing a coach ticket in his hand.     
  
"Hisself was right - there's a fancy cove watchin' the place," Wiggins announced.  He pulled off his outer coat, handing it to Irene.  "Jane is ready to nip out to the stores - that should distract 'im, trying to ken if she's the lady," he told John.  
  
"Excellent," John said, and while Wiggins went to give Jane her final instructions, he picked up the carpet bag and held it out to Irene.  "On your way, then, before someone decides to get a closer look."  
  
Irene took the bag and said, abruptly, "You're not as stupid as I was led to believe."  
  
 John frowned at her, wondering who would have said such a thing about him to her.  Surely not Sherlock; although he deplored John's lack of observation, he had consistently stated that John was smarter than the average idiots infesting the world.    
  
"I was told that you were a typical English lord, with no thoughts beyond your sport and your bed," she added.  
  
John thought that sounded more descriptive of the late earl than himself.  "I was a doctor in the army," he said stiffly.  "Hardly typical."  
  
"No, that's not it.  There's something...more," Irene said, her eyes narrowed as she assessed him again.  "Something Sherlock sees, that makes him choose this life and _you_."  She looked around the entry hall with a look that combined condescension and bewilderment, then shrugged.  "I can't see it but I sense it."  Her lips quirked up in sudden amusement.  "And _Someone_ is due quite the surprise for underestimating you.  I wonder how he'll take it.  I almost wish I could be here to see."  
  
"Who?"  
  
Irene shrugged again.  "It's no concern of mine; I wash my hands of the whole matter."  
  
Tired of her cryptic words and unsettling presence, John gave up and walked her to the door.  He held it open for her.  "Have a safe journey.  And if you ever think about returning here - don't."  
  
She laughed and stepped onto the pavement, pausing to look up at the windows.  What Irene saw there made her face soften slightly and she nodded once, before stepping back towards John.  "Take care of yourself and take care of him," she said, her voice low and urgent.  "You have made a dangerous enemy.  _Be on your guard_."  
  
Then she turned and strode down the street, the carpet bag swinging as she walked, mimicking Wiggins' walk perfectly.  
  
John stepped out on the pavement and glanced up to see Sherlock standing at his bedroom window, wrapped in his dressing gown.  Their eyes met briefly, then Sherlock turned away from the window and John went back inside.

 

* * *

 

The next few days were busiest days that John had known for a long time as he made preparations for their return to Saughton for the fall.  There were letters to be answered, household accounts to be balanced, bills to be paid.  Arrangements were made to leave their London house in Mrs. Hudson's capable hands until their return at the end of October, while also arranging for that excellent lady to enjoy a week's holiday.  John's man of business was left in charge of anything urgent, and the mail was to be forwarded to Saughton every fortnight.  At the same time, Wimmering was sent word of the day of their planned arrival so that Saughton House could be prepared against their arrival.  John would miss London and the cases, but late summer in London was insupportable and he was looking forward to the work to be done on the estate.  There were any number of tasks awaiting him on the estate:  the harvest to supervise, plans to make for the winter, and preparations for the fall _fete_.    
  
Sherlock was full of plans for their time in Scotland as well, having declared that the criminal class in London had become so stupid that even the Runners could catch them unaided.  He was eager to attend to the installation of his new hives, built to the specifications he'd obtained from Robert Kerr, and had ordered a new distilling apparatus for his workroom there.  
  
There was one thing that John hoped wouldn't change, and that was the sleeping arrangements.  Every night except one since the Woman's arrival, Sherlock had extended to John an invitation to sleep in his bed and John had accepted.  The exception was the second night after her departure, when Sherlock had been so absorbed in the experiment he was running that he didn't seem to notice when John bid him good night and went up to his own solitary bed.  In the middle of the night, however, John had awakened as the bed covers lifted and a body slipped into his bed.  His senses immediately told him that it was his husband, aborting his instinctive defensive reaction; instead, he rolled onto his side to give Sherlock more room.  Sherlock pressed up against him, shivering from the night's chill, his bare feet brushing against John's.  
  
"Bloody hell, your feet are freezing," John muttered but shifted to tuck Sherlock's feet under his in order to warm them up. "Finish your experiment, then?"  
  
"Mmmm," Sherlock replied, tucking his cold nose against the back of John's neck.  "This bed is ridiculously small, John."  
  
"Hmm-mmm," John replied sleepily.  " 's fine for one person."  
  
"We'll be using my bed from now on," Sherlock said, in between a yawn. He shifted slightly, pressing a little closer to John's warmth, and made a contented noise.  
  
John had no fault to find with that, letting himself slide back into sleep.  And after that, it was unspoken but understood that John would sleep in Sherlock's bed, even if Sherlock didn't retire at the same time.  
  
Sherlock certainly slept better, even if he rested fewer hours than John, and John was relieved to see that the initial malaise he'd suffered seemed to be improving.  A morning regimen that included ginger biscuits appeared to be agreeing with Sherlock as his nausea abated and his colour improved.  His appetite had increased as well, which John was glad to see as he thought Sherlock ate entirely too little.  Mrs. Hudson also appeared to have noticed his increase in appetite, and the dishes that caught his fancy in particular made frequent appearances on the table.

Unfortunately, it was the improvement in his health and the gain of some needed weight that brought Sherlock's secret to Mycroft's notice, much to Sherlock's dismay.  Five days after the conclusion of the business with Irene Adler, Mycroft and Lestrade accepted an invitation to dine at Baker Street, a few days before the Watsons were due to head north.  Mycroft was in a particularly genial mood, accepting his brother's teasing about the weight he'd gained since his marriage to Lestrade in good spirits.  
  
"Those who live in glass houses," Mycroft said, not appearing in the least perturbed by Sherlock's jabs.  "Your waistcoat is fitting tighter than usual these days, Sherlock.  Should I also ascribe this to wedded bliss, or - "  Mycroft paused for Sherlock's face had gone white and John was refraining from looking at either brother.  "You are pregnant," Mycroft said baldly, with none of his usual smooth courtesy.  "And it is not a recent development.  I would venture to guess two months?"  
  
"Nearly three," John admitted when it appeared that Sherlock wasn't going to say anything.  
  
"Splendid news!" Lestrade said, delighted by the revelation.  He rose to grab the wine bottle from it's place  on the sideboard and refilled all their glasses.  "A toast to Sherlock and John!" he said, lifting his glass in the air.  He paused when there was no response from the other three men, lowering his arm.  "It is good news, isn't it?  John?"  
  
"Of course," John said, rousing himself to turn to Lestrade and lift his own glass in thanks for the toast.  "The best sort of news and I'm very pleased."  
  
"Mycroft?" Lestrade said, turning to his husband who appeared to be locked in a staring contest with Sherlock.  
  
"When did you intend to tell me?" Mycroft asked, his voice cold and filled with suppressed anger.  "Or was I to be informed with the rest of the world once the child was born?"  
  
"Don't be dramatic, Mycroft," Sherlock said, affecting a bored tone although John could see that his hand was clenched on his lap.  "You would have been informed in due course."  
  
" _In due course_?  Your own brother, and I am the last to know?"  
  
"Hardly the last," John said, reassuringly.  
  
"Well, that's a comfort!" Mycroft snapped.  "Seeing that it's my money that'll be paying the doctor's bills, one would think I had a right to know!"  
  
"Mycroft!" Lestrade said, aghast at his words.    
  
John stiffened at the mention of money, his lips whitening.  "No, sir.  It will be the profits from the estate that will pay for the care of my husband and my child."  
  
"An estate you would have lost if not for - "  
  
"That's enough!" Sherlock said sharply.  " _This_ is why I delayed in telling you!  I knew that you would behave like this.  You owe John an apology, Mycroft."  
  
"Do I, indeed?" Mycroft said, his voice equally sharp.  
  
"Yes," Lestrade said firmly, his eyes conveying the message that there would be unpleasant consequences if Mycroft continued in this manner.  
  
Mycroft growled and pushed away from the table, pacing back and forth in the room as if trying to gain control over his temper.   "I apologize, John," he said after a few minutes.  "My words were calculated to cause pain, which you have in no way earned.  I am well-aware that you have treated me fairly and have taken great care of my brother."  
  
"Accepted," John said, quietly, in response.  "If it helps, the only people who have known about the matter before now are Sherlock's valet and Mrs Hudson, and I wouldn't have known if I hadn't happened to find Sherlock unwell at the Coronation party."  
  
"Your sister -  ?"  Mycroft looked pleased when John shook his head.  "Then I once again apologize for my outburst.  No doubt you were waiting to impart the news till there was little chance of loss."  
  
"I waited because I knew you'd pitch a fit," Sherlock said pointedly.  " _Which you did_."  
  
"My natural concern for you," Mycroft said smoothly.  He then lifted his wine glass, repeating Lestrade's earlier toast and drinking heartily.  "Now, we shall have Samuels in immediately, of course."  
  
"Samuels?" John said, blankly.  
  
"The best accoucheur in London, one of the principal students of Dr. Croft, who attended most of the nobility for the past ten years," Mycroft said.  "If we'd had him in for Sherrinford, she might still be with us."  
  
"No," Sherlock said shortly.  "I will not have doctors fussing over me.  Now that the morning sickness has passed, I am quite well."  
  
"And it is my intention to see that you _remain_ well, Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly.    
  
Sherlock subsided, fuming, but John's own temper was rising.  "Now, wait a minute!" he began.  "I'm a doctor and I think I know how to look after Sherlock!"  
  
"You are a surgeon, not a specialist of Omegas nor a midwife," Mycroft said, turning his attention to John.  "I believe for Sherlock's sake that it would be best to consult an expert.  Now, what are your plans?  You will be retiring to your estate soon."  
  
John bit back his temper, knowing that Mycroft was concerned about his brother.  "We plan to leave on Monday," he managed to say.  
  
Mycroft nodded.  "That should be enough time to get in Samuels."  He ignored Sherlock's muttering at that name.  
  
"Certainly there is no need to rush," John said, seeking to ease the conflict between the two brothers.  "When we return at the end of October - "  
  
"Return?" Mycroft said, frowning.  "Why would you be returning to London?"  
  
Now it was John's turn to frown.  "When Parliament reopens?  It was you, sir, who insisted I take my seat in that body.  And for the Work, of course."  
  
"Sherlock will not continue his little hobby, nor will he be returning to London until after the child is born and it is safe to travel," Mycroft said firmly.  
  
"Mycroft - " Lestrade began, eyeing Sherlock with evident nervousness.    
  
"My Work is very important," Sherlock protested.  
  
"And you'd be racketing all over London, I'll be bound," his brother said darkly.   "Going into the worst disease-ridden parts of town, running after desperate criminals, risking your health and that of the child.  It won't do, Sherlock.  If your husband won't draw the line, well, _I_ will.  One word from me and there will be no official cases brought your way ever again."  
  
Sherlock sprang to his feet, fury on his face.  "You spoil everything, Mycroft!  You have no business interfering!  I knew what would happen, the moment you knew!   I won't go see your Dr. Samuels, and I won't be banished to the country!"  
  
"You'll do as you're told," Mycroft said sternly.  
  
Sherlock made an obscene gesture at him and stormed into the sitting room, flinging himself onto the sofa, his back turned to the rest of them.  
  
Mycroft followed as far as the dividing doors.  "Sherlock!" he said again, then sighed and rubbed his hand over his face.  "Sherlock," he repeated, in a quieter tone of voice.  "You are my only living family.  You must see that I am only trying to do my best for you.  Your loss would break my heart."  
  
Sherlock rolled over and sat up, staring at Mycroft as he sought a suitable response.  "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" he asked, plaintively.  He dropped back down on the sofa, on his back, sighing.  "Very well.  I will see your specialist, and if he advises that I await my confinement in the country, I will do so."  He turned his head to look at his husband, standing quietly beside the dining table.  "John?"  
  
"What would you have me say?" John said, reluctantly.  He couldn't imagine spending the next seven months kicking up their heels at Saughton.  Sherlock would surely go mad and take John with him.  However, he didn't feel that he could go against Mycroft, so he agreed to both the doctor and the sojourn to Saughton if required by that expert.  
  
Following this, the evening ended early, Sherlock going up to his rooms without bidding his brother or brother-in-law good-night.  It was left to John to see their guests out before going upstairs to find that Sherlock's door was shut very firmly against him.  With a sinking sensation and a feeling of great loss, he went to his own solitary bed.

 

* * *

 

Any hope that the specialist would come down on their side was crushed at their first meeting with the esteemed doctor.  Samuels was a Beta - as most _accoucheurs_ were - and and he was both pompous and opinionated, conveying the impression that any Omega acquiring his service was very fortunate indeed and would do well to hang on his every word.  He dismissed John's experience as an army surgeon with words that were at once complementary of his military service while also asserting that he knew _nothing_ of use in regard to this situation.  After such a set-down, John hardly dared to open his mouth.    
  
Samuels was not in the least bit surprised that Sherlock had been ill, setting it down to the heavy foods favoured by Mrs Hudson, as well as too much activity.  He insisted on bleeding Sherlock immediately, leaving him pale and subdued.  A new diet was prescribed and complete rest in the countryside ordered.  Sherlock might have objected except that this worthy had first expressed his conviction that Sherlock's hips were dangerously narrow, and that only by extreme measures could a successful delivery be achieved.  Sherlock had turned pale and silent, even before the bleeding, not saying a word in opposition, and had retired to his bed early, rejecting the supper tray sent up for him.    
  
John looked over the new diet with disquiet, noting the complete proscribing of red meats and starches, as well as any sort of sweet.  If Sherlock had inclined towards heaviness or been of a choleric disposition John might have agreed, but as thin as Sherlock was, the diet seemed absurd.  However, Stamford confirmed that Samuels had a wide clientèle, and as John's experience with childbirth had been restricted to Betas, he reluctantly gave way to the esteemed doctor's plan.

And so it was on a hot morning in August that he handed Sherlock into the travelling coach once more loaned to them by Mycroft for the trip to Scotland.  Sherlock was unhappy and listless, having slept poorly and alone for the past two nights, and his nausea had returned with a vengeance so that he was unable to keep down anything, even with his restricted diet.  He barely managed to rouse himself to bid farewell to Mrs Hudson before the coach set out on the Great Northern Road.   Unlike their previous trip to Scotland, Sherlock made for poor company, sleeping most of the time and staring morosely out of the carriage window the rest of the time. At night, Sherlock refused to sleep in a bed, sitting in a chair and staring at the fire during the short hours of the night.  Feeling helpless in the face of his husband's misery, John's only escape was in taking to the saddle for long sections of the journey, although this also increased his sense of guilt.   
  
The only bright point in the whole miserable trip was that it took less time, compared to their previous drive to Scotland, due to vastly improved road conditions.  And so it was with relief that John climbed down from the carriage at Saughton five days after leaving London, then turned back to lend Sherlock a hand in descending from the carriage.  Sherlock looked up at the manor with a disinterest so unlike his usual self, even when he was at his most bored, and announced his intention to retire to his bed immediately.  
  
John watched his husband mount the stairs, leaning heavily on the arm of the footman as if the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other was too much.  A suffocating feeling of dread filled him, making him feel sick to his stomach. 

He had never felt more helpless in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I have changed the doctor summoned in this chapter, for anyone re-reading and wondering what happened. Although Dr. Croft was the doctor used in Georgette Heyer's story that this is a fusion with, that story was placed in 1815. When checking my research, I discovered that Dr. Croft committed suicide in 1818, following the death of his patient, Princess Caroline, in childbirth. Instead, I have made the doctor one of his students, following his prescribed methods. Dr. Croft belonged to one of two opposing viewpoints on childbirth at the time, views that lingered till 1840 when bleeding and maternal diets went out of fashion.


	36. Part III: Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is miserable and John is worried about his husband. Fortunately, John has family to turn to for advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have been following each chapter as posted, you should be aware that I have changed doctors in the previous chapter. My initial research missed the fact that Dr. Richard Croft committed suicide in 1818, a few months after the death of his most famous client - Charlotte, the Princess of Wales - in childbirth. Since my story takes place 3 years later, I decided to create a fictitious doctor instead of using the one that Georgette Heyer used in her story, the one this is a fusion with. So Dr. Samuels is now the London doctor's name, both edited in the previous chapter and used in this one.

  
John watched Sherlock climb the stairs on the arm of the footman for a moment, then turned to Turner to extend his compliments on the excellent turn-out of the staff.  Turner looked pleased and dismissed the staff to their duties, turning John over to his wife for updates on the house.  
  
"Your bedchamber has been completely finished, my lord," Mrs. Turner informed him with a smile.  "Very nice it looks, too.  And I've located the warehouse where her late Ladyship - your mother, I mean, my lord - obtained the curtains for the best parlour, so I had a new set run up."  
  
"Excellent, Mrs. Turner," John said.  "We will need to look to the nursery next.  I noticed how threadbare the area looked while we were here last."  He glanced around and, seeing that the rest of the staff was out of earshot, said quietly, so that only she could hear, "It is likely to be in use before too long."  
  
Mrs. Turner's eyes lit up.  "Excellent news, my lord!"  
  
"We aren't saying anything publicly, of course," John cautioned her.  "If you could inform the staff in a discreet manner, I would be very appreciative."  
  
"Certainly, my lord."  She paused, then said, "If you'll pardon my saying, Lord Sherlock didn't look in the best of health."  
  
John sighed.  "He isn't, to be quite honest.  He is having trouble with his stomach, although his doctor says that his new diet will help with that."  He handed her the diet plan.  "Would you see that Cook gets this?"  
  
"Of course, my lord."  Mrs. Turner glanced down the items and raised her eyebrows.  "It does seems a bit sparse."  
  
"That was my thought as well," John said, nodding.  "But Lord Sherlock's doctor is supposed to be the best in London, hired by his brother especially."  
  
"Modern fads and fancies," Mrs. Turner said with a sigh.  "I suppose the doctor knows best.  I'll pass this to Cook and have tea sent up to his Lordship.  Rest is no doubt what he needs."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Turner," John said gratefully.  "Would you have our dinner sent up to our private parlour?  It was a long journey, and neither of us are up to dressing for dinner."  
  
"Of course, my lord."  
  
John climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered the room that had formerly belonged to his sister-in-law.   One of the footmen was efficiently unpacking his cases and John took the opportunity to look around the room.  He saw with approval that it had been papered to complement the master bedroom with complementary drapes, and an old-fashioned, sturdy four-poster bed took the place of the swan bed that Janet had installed.  
  
As the footman had finished his unpacking, John enlisted his aid in removing his coat and boots.  The young man handled both items with skill and apparent familiarity, and John made a mental note to speak to Turner about having him valet for John during their residence at Saughton.  He had discovered that civilian dress was a great deal more complicated to maintain than his military togs, and was reluctant to borrow Wiggins from Sherlock as he acted in the capacity of private secretary as well.  He supposed that he needed to hire a true valet, but lack of space at Baker Street was an issue.    
  
He dismissed the young man back to his duties, removed his waistcoat, then donned his banyan and slippers before crossing to knock on the connecting door to Sherlock's room.  The door was opened by Wiggins who stood back for him to enter, and John saw that Sherlock was laid on the daybed with a cool cloth over his forehead.  He crouched next to his husband, taking his pulse while also checking him for fever.  
  
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said irritably.  "I don't require molly-coddling."  
  
"Of course not," John said blandly.  Sherlock's pulse was a trifle fast and his skin a little warm, but it had been a long journey and the other man had climbed two flights of stairs after days of sedentary boredom.  "I have asked that supper be served in our little parlour outside, rather than the dining room.  I'm afraid that I'm not up to dressing for dinner, so I hope you won't mind me sitting down in all my dirt."  
  
Sherlock snorted.  "You are an abominable liar, John, but thank you.  I admit that I wasn't looking forward to traversing the stairs again, nor to rigging myself out in style."  
  
"Excellent."  John rose to his feet.  "I will leave you to rest, then."  
  
John went down to his study to fill in the hour until supper with going through his correspondence.  As he expected, Wimmering had sorted everything into tidy piles, with a note on top indicating that he would make himself available to his Lordship the following morning.  John eyed the piles with trepidation, more than a little concerned about the number of items that appeared to require his attention.  It appeared that keeping busy for the next six months wouldn't be as much of a problem as he'd thought.  
  
But somehow, the thought that none of his time would be involved in following Sherlock on cases made the future ahead of him look less than ideal.

* * *

   
Sherlock was indulging in the most tremendous sulk that John had ever seen. 

When he could be coaxed out of his bed and into clothes, he drifted around the house looking as pale and insubstantial as a wraith.  He had very little interest in anything around him, not his beehives nor his experiments.  His new distillation equipment sat in its crate, unopened.  His appetite had completely disappeared and he barely seemed to taste the bland and meagre diet prescribed by Samuels.  John watched him listlessly move food about on his plate with anxiety and, as August drifted into September, he worried that Sherlock would never emerge from this deep depression.  
  
John tried his best, but Sherlock's temper was such that he was never certain what would set him off.  He was by turns dismissive of John's attention, driving him away with shouts and sneering abuse, and then morose and despairing when John left him alone.  John leashed his own temper, doing his best not to take Sherlock's hurtful words personally, feeling somewhat rewarded on the rare occasions when Sherlock's mood would shift and he would turn to John for comfort.  John would coax Sherlock into curling up with him on the sofa in their private parlour, reading to him from the London papers or massaging his aching temples.    
  
But there was no invitation from Sherlock to join him in his bed.  
  
As September deepened into autumn, John was relieved to see that Sherlock would occasionally indulge in a walk outside, returning with his cheeks slightly pinked by the cool wind.  His relief was short-lived, however, as Wiggins pulled him aside and silently handed him a sealed envelope.  The outside was labelled, in Sherlock's flowing hand, as the Last Will and Testament of Sherlock Holmes-Watson.    
  
John's blood ran cold and, not stopping to think that he was invading his husband's privacy, he ripped open the envelope and pulled out the document.  He scanned over it quickly before clenching it in his fist and turning to Wiggins.  
  
"Where is Sherlock?" he demanded.    
  
"He likes to stroll along Cammo Walk most days."  
  
John frowned, trying to think what could take Sherlock along that way.  "Towards Burghlin Burn?" he asked, wondering what interest Sherlock saw in the narrow ornamental canal,  choked with weeds as it was at present.  
  
"No, m'lord - the other way."  
  
The other way, John thought, led through a little woods to the private family cemetery.    
  
"Right," he said shortly, setting his jaw.  "This ends _now_.  Pack an overnight bag for Lord Sherlock and myself, and send word to the stables to ready the curricle,"  
  
John swiftly changed his house shoes for boots and stormed out of the house, not even waiting for the footmen to fetch his coat.  He strode across the lawn, eschewing the winding gravel paths, making his way to the cemetery.  Sherlock was easily found, sitting under a pretty little arbour, looking out over a row of little tombstones with a blank expression on his face.  There was such a false sense of peace on Sherlock's face, such as John had seen occasionally on a dying soldier's face, that he was struck by terror.  
  
"What in the blo - blazes do you think you're doing?" he demanded, fury and fear mixing into a flammable combination of emotions.  
  
"I should think that would be clear, even to you," Sherlock said, although the bite of his words was dimmed by his absent-minded expression and monotone voice.  "It's quite peaceful in this part of the cemetery.  Your brother is here, and his children," he said, pointing to the row of tombstones before him.  "I think that I would like to be buried over there," he added, gesturing towards an empty section in the far corner.  "There is adequate space for you and your second spouse, should you wish it."  
  
"I do not wish it!" John snapped.  "There will be no 'second spouse' as I intend to keep my _first_ for a great number of years, thank you very much!"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, John - "  
  
" _Ridiculous_?  I'll tell you what is ridiculous!" John snapped, waving the paper clutched in his fist in Sherlock's face.  "I never saw such a chuckle-brained document in my life!  Suggesting that Georgie might be an 'appropriate' godparent to help raise our son?  I love my niece, but she's no more fit to look after a child than a monkey!  She'd no doubt diaper the wrong end of the child!"  He tore the will into several small pieces, scattering them to the wind.    
  
"John - " Sherlock began, a scowl replacing the abstracted look that had so frightened John.  
  
"Up with you," John said shortly, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pulling him up from the bench.  "We're going away for a few days."

Sherlock was silent, not even protesting as John dragged him by the hand across the lawn to the stables where a pair of matched bays were being harnessed to the light curricle that John favoured for driving about the countryside.  Wiggins was just seeing that their travel cases were strapped to the back before turning to help Sherlock into his greatcoat, then jumping up to take his place on the jump seat above the luggage.  John handed Sherlock up onto the seat, then climbed up and took the reins from the grooms.  
  
"Might I inquire where we are going?" Sherlock asked at last as John turned the carriage onto Cammo Road, towards Queensberry.    
  
John glanced over at him, pleased to see that his husband's pale cheeks were acquiring a little colour.  "Hatton House," he replied.  "The Dowager returned last week and bid us break our bread with her one evening."  
  
"Is she aware that she is to be our host tonight?" Sherlock inquired shrewdly.  
  
John shrugged.  "Not yet."    
  
He gave Sherlock a sideways look and was relieved to hear the other man's chuckle, the first he'd heard him laugh in over a month.  John couldn't help grinning in return and took the turn onto Queensberry in style.  
  
The Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy's butler didn't bat an eye when they turned up at Hatton House nearly an hour later.  A groom was dispatched to tend to the horses, Wiggins was sent upstairs to unpack, and the lofty butler showed them into the Dowager's presence himself.  
  
"John, my dear boy!" the Dowager said, after a momentarily startled look at them,  She rose from the settee and walked over to them, arms outstretched in welcome, and kissed John soundly on both cheeks.  "I am _delighted_ that you could take some time to visit me - I have been heartily bored with my own company!"  
  
She turned to Sherlock and he suffered to be embraced before she drew them to sit by the fire, to warm up following the chilly drive, then sent them up to change for dinner.  Scorning to keep city hours in the country, the Dowager sat them down to an excellent meal within two hours of their arrival.    
  
Sherlock only picked at his food but the Dowager pretended not to notice as she launched into a lively story of her journey from London to Scotland.  She had broken her journey at the homes of several of her friends along the way, most notably at Alnwick where the present Duchess of Northumberland was her goddaughter.  As Hugh Percy had gone to the Royal High School with John, John was eager to hear about the improvements he was making to his lands, including having open meetings with his tenants once a month.  John resolved to write to his old school-mate to make inquiries about the changes he'd implemented.  
  
Following dinner, they returned to the salon where the Dowager demanded entertainment in the form of the true story behind the case that had brought her grandchildren's new governess to them.  John was more than happy to fill her in, with frequent interruptions by Sherlock who complained that John left out the most interesting parts of the case.  So involved was Sherlock in retelling the facts that he unconsciously consumed a quantity of cakes along with his tea, much to his dismay once he realized it.  John, however, was delighted to see Sherlock indulging his notorious sweet-tooth and could have kissed the Dowager for engineering the evening.  
  
After the tea tray was removed, Sherlock bade goodnight and made his way upstairs while John remained behind to look over a letter from one of his uncles.  However, once Sherlock was safely out of earshot, the Dowager turned on John with quite the fiercest expression he'd ever seen from her.  
  
"What in God's name is wrong with that lad?" she demanded.  "He looks like a death head on a stick!"  
  
"Oh, thank Christ!" John said, relieved to hear her say that.  "I'm not wrong in thinking that he looks poorly, then?  I wasn't certain if it was just a first time father's nerves, but Sherlock is very unlike himself, and not nearly as well as he was when we left London."  
  
"What ails him?  The babe not taking as it should?"  
  
Knowing that the Dowager had borne several children of her own, as well as supporting her Omega daughter through many difficult pregnancies, John had no hesitation in laying all the facts before his hostess, including the special diet, which she immediately derided.  
  
"I don't hold with such nonsense," she said frankly.  "If Sherlock were portly, it might be a different matter, but he hasn't an ounce of fat on him."  She gave John a shrewd look.  "You're a clever lad, a doctor yourself - why are you putting up with this quackery?"  
  
John sighed.  "The truth of it is that I have little in the way of experience with childbirth.  That was left to the midwives with the army, unless the child needed to be surgically removed following the death of the mother.  Dr. Samuels is reputed to be the best in London.  Sherlock's brother _insisted_ on him.  You see, they lost their sister in childbirth, and Mycroft fears to lose Sherlock as well.  But it appears to me that matters have _worsened_.  Sherlock had just begun to recover his appetite, and he was sleeping well, but that's all gone out the window.  Now he barely eats or sleeps, takes no interest in his usual pursuits, and today I found him in the cemetery, talking about his own death.  He made a _Will_.  I - well, I am afraid for him," John confessed.    
  
The Dowager frowned.  "Have you thought of consulting with one of your old teachers at the University?"  
  
John's jaw dropped, for it hadn't occurred to him to turn there for another opinion and he felt chagrined.  "You're right," he said, his cheeks warm with embarrassment.  "I don't know why I didn't think of that."  
  
The Dowager reached out to pat his hand.  "John, dear, you are perhaps too close to the situation to see clearly.  One of my grooms can carry a message for you in the morning.  And perhaps we could walk over to Dalmahoy after breakfast?  The children will be delighted to see you, and Clara would be just the one to talk to your Sherlock about his situation, don't you think?"  
  
John was grateful for the suggestions.  He borrowed paper and pen to write a quick letter to Dr. Stewart, which he entrusted to the Dowager.  Much relieved in mind, John went up to bed in a much better frame of mind than when he'd arrived. 

Finding Wiggins bedded down on the dressing room cot, John cautiously slid into bed with his husband, careful not to disturb him.  Sherlock stirred, nonetheless, no doubt alerted by the presence of another person in the room.  He rolled over on his side, towards him, and murmured "John" without opening his eyes, falling immediately back to sleep.  Feeling his spirits lifted by Sherlock's comfort in his presence, John fell asleep easily for the first time in weeks.  
  
He woke to an empty bed, although the sheets still bore some residual warmth that told him that Sherlock had slept longer than usual.  John dressed quickly and went downstairs to find the Dowager and Sherlock still at breakfast, and a glance at Sherlock's plate told him that his husband had managed most of a plate of kippers and black pudding, as well as the muffin he was currently eating.  Pleased by this indication that Sherlock's persistent nausea was easing, he sat down to his own breakfast with a greater appetite as well.  
  
The Dowager ordered the footman to fill his plate, saying, "I don't hold with those fashionable Ton diets, I'll have you know - young men need more than a trifling muffin to fuel themselves for the day."  She then proceeded to tell them stories about her late husband's penchant for enormous breakfasts as John worked his way through kippers and a rasher of bacon.  Sherlock shot John an amused look as their hostess exhorted John to a second helping, but he seemed content to linger over the table and a second cup of tea, instead of rushing away with a complaint about the smells curdling his stomach.  
  
After breakfast, they strolled across the grounds to Dalmahoy, where both of them were greeted with enthusiasm by Georgia and Archie, as well as their parents.  Janet's three children were visiting as Janet claimed to be deathly ill and their nursemaid was laid up with a toothache.  Miss Hunter appeared to be handling her additional charges with equanimity, and Clara was in such fine spirits as she supervised little Meg's stitching that John hardly recognized her.  
  
Clara and Harry greeted John's announcement of the impending new arrival to the Watson family with genial good-will and congratulations.  Then Harry bore John off for an afternoon of quail hunting while Clara and the Dowager spirited Sherlock off for a frank discussion about child-bearing.  John expected to have his head handed to him by his husband when he returned from shooting, but to his surprise, Sherlock said not one word of complaint.  He was quieter than usual during dinner but his mood was contemplative rather than brooding.  
  
After an early dinner, they bid farewell to their hosts and climbed into their curricle to head back to Saughton.  Sherlock filled the time with observations about the grounds of Dalmahoy and some suggestions for the renovation of their own formal gardens.  John was pleased to see Sherlock take an interest in something, and when his questions about flower-choice launched an animated discussion about bees and their preferences, John decided that the visit had been a success.  
  
Once at Saughton, they went to their separate rooms and John opened the reply he'd received from Dr. Stewart.  His old mentor had been pleased to recommend one of his colleagues, a Dr. McCormick, who taught classes for male-midwives and doctors specialising in Omega maternity patients in addition to his private practice.  Dr. McCormick had agreed visit Saughton any morning that week, at their convenience.  John was just wondering how to broach the subject with his husband when there was a knock on the adjoining door.  
  
"Enter," he called out, thinking that it was Wiggins coming to collect his clothing for cleaning.  Instead, he was surprised to see Sherlock standing in the doorway and he rose hastily to his feet.  "Sherlock!  Come in, please."  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  "You are busy," he said, indicating the letter in John's hand.  
  
"No, indeed," John replied, then added, "This concerns you as well."  Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow as he entered John's bedchamber.  "I have written to my old mentor at University - you might remember Dr. Stewart, from our visit?  He has spoken to a colleague of his, Dr. McCormick, who specializes in Omega pregnancies.  Dr. McCormick is willing to visit, to give us his opinion on your - your condition."  
  
Sherlock frowned and John hastened to add, "I am worried about you, Sherlock.  You are too thin and pale - you hardly eat a morsel!  And you seem dreadfully unhappy."  
  
"You wish me to consult with this specialist?" Sherlock asked, his frown deepening.    
  
"Of course," John said.  "Of course I do."  
  
Sherlock hesitated, wetting his lips, before saying, "If I were to die, in childbirth, Mycroft could hardly blame you.  Nor could he take back the funds that came to you on our marriage.  You could remarry.  Someone of your own choice."  
  
John's temper flared at that.  "And you think I want that?  You really believe that I would be fine with _losing you,_ so long as I could keep the money?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened at the vehemence in John's tone.  "No.  Of course you wouldn't.  You are a man of honour."  
  
"It's more than just my _honour_ , Sherlock!" John said sharply.  "I like you.  Quite a bit, in fact.  I consider you my _best_   friend, not just my husband."  
  
That thought was apparently more than Sherlock could comprehend for he blinked for several minutes without saying anything.  John began to be concerned that he'd somehow damaged Sherlock and he stepped forward, laying his hand on the sleeve of Sherlock's dressing gown.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, refocusing on John's face.  "I'm your best friend?" he said, sounding perplexed.    
  
John couldn't help smiling a bit at that.  "Yeah.  Of course you are.  You're brilliant, and amazing, and I enjoy every day we spend together."  
  
Sherlock looked as if he didn't know quite what to say to that.  He nodded his head jerkily, then turned and walked towards the connecting door to his bedchamber.  
  
"Sherlock?" John said and Sherlock stopped, turning to look back at him inquiringly.  John held up the letter.  "Shall we try Dr. McCormick?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "I suppose we have nothing to lose.  Clara mentioned his name earlier today, said that he was the best of the lot.  Apparently she wouldn't have Archie if not for Dr. McCormick."  He opened the door and stepped into his bedchamber, turning briefly back toward his husband.  "Good-night, John."  
  
" 'Night, Sherlock," he said in return and then, after Sherlock had closed the door, he murmured quietly, "Sleep well."

* * *

The next morning, John sent a message to Dr. McCormick advising him that they would be pleased to see him the following morning, if that suited.  He didn't want to wait another moment for Sherlock's nausea had returned that morning, making John feel helpless and frustrated.  At dinner he shared the news that Dr, McCormick had confirmed an appointment for the next morning, and  Sherlock accepted the news with a few caustic comments about the uselessness of the endeavour.  But when John retired to his bedchamber, Sherlock once again tapped on his door and entered.  John had just banked the fire and turned to him inquiringly.  
  
Sherlock looked around the room as if he hadn't taken it in the previous night.  "The changes turned out rather well, I see."  He wandered over to the windows that looked over the lawn.  "Much better prospect than your former room, I believe."  
  
"Yes, it is, although the morning light in summer could be a bit trying," John said, setting aside the fire tongs and dusting off his hands.  He had no idea what Sherlock was about but had to admit that he was pleased by his presence.  There was something inside of him that felt anxious when Sherlock was out of his sight for too long and a bone-deep pleasure when Sherlock came within his touch.  
  
Sherlock wandered about the room, peering at the knick-knacks laid out on John's dresser, at the novel on John's night-table, at the coat laid over the back of a chair to be steamed and pressed the following day.  John's eyes followed him, a puzzled frown creasing his brow, as Sherlock failed to explain the reason for his presence in John's room.  
  
"Sherlock?  Is there something I can help you with?"  
  
Sherlock seemed to recollect himself and two spots of red appeared on his cheekbones.  "No.  I merely wanted to say - thank you."   At John's puzzled look he added, "For our visit to your sister's family.  It was very kind of you."  
  
"Was it?" John said, pleased by Sherlock's thanks.  "Well, you are very kind to me."  
  
"No, I'm not," Sherlock said shortly.  "But I mean to be better."  
  
"Don't do that!" John exclaimed.  At Sherlock's startled look, he crossed the room to take his husband's hands.  "Sherlock, I wouldn't want you to be other than the way you are.  Surely you know that."  
  
"I - " Sherlock paused, considering, then nodded.  "Yes.  I do know that."  
  
"Good."  John leaned up to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek.  "Good night, my dear.  Sleep well."  
  
"Thank you.  I believe that I shall."    
  
With a faint smile, Sherlock went to his own bedchamber.  John took off his dressing gown and draped it across the end of the bed before slipping under the covers.  As he blew out the candle, he reflected that he felt happier than he had since they'd come to Saughton.

* * *

Sherlock, however, appeared to have had a less than restful night and he began the morning by being vilely sick.  He was inclined to snarl at everyone, rejecting food and drink alike, looking pale and unhappy with the world.  John finally managed to coax Sherlock into taking a kip on the sofa, his head on a pillow on John's lap as he soothingly stroked his husband's temples.  Sherlock dropped into a short but heavy sleep, awaking an hour later and seeming to feel a little more the thing.    
  
Dr. McCormick arrived shortly afterwards and John took an immediate liking to the man.  He was a tall, fatherly sort of Beta, exuding an air of competence while at the same time setting John at ease.  He shook hands with John, saying a few complimentary things about John's education and service before asking to be shown to his patient.  Wiggins escorted the doctor up to Sherlock's bedchamber while John paced in his study, an ear open for Sherlock's confrontation with the specialist.  To his surprise, there was no outburst from Sherlock, and when Wiggins brought McCormick back to John's study the young man looked as if he'd been relieved of a large burden.  
  
Dr. McCormick accepted the glass of sherry offered to him by John, taking a seat at the fireplace.  John sat across from him with his own glass.  
  
"Well, Doctor?  How do you find your patient?" John asked after they'd each taken a sip of the sherry.  
  
McCormick set his glass on the table beside him and leaned back in his chair.  "I will not lie to you, my lord.  Lord Sherlock is not in the sort of state that I would like to see in one of my patients.  He is entirely too thin to begin with, and I understand that he is having considerable difficulty retaining his meals."  
  
John nodded.  "He was sick again this morning - as he is nearly every morning.  And I am worried about the diet prescribed for him by Dr. Samuels."  
  
"I have the greatest admiration for my distinguished colleague in London," McCormick began.  "I understand that he follows Dr. Croft's regimen, and they have achieved miracles in some hopeless cases.  However, I have noted - as you will have seen yourself, my lord - that sometimes a series of successes with one stratagem will lead people to apply the same solution to all situations, even when it doesn't fit.  Such is the case here.  Lord Sherlock's nature is such that he is inclined to leanness, and in his current condition we must counter that tendency.  I would prescribe a different diet, one consisting of several small meals that will perhaps sit better on his stomach.  And while I don't advise an intake of pure sugar, I think that there are few types of food that he need avoid."  
  
"Dr. Samuels was concerned about the narrowness of Sherlock's hips - that's why he wanted to limit Sherlock's weight.  Sherlock's sister died in childbirth."  
  
McCormick nodded.  "So Lord Sherlock has shared with me.  However, there is a significant difference between Lord Sherlock and his sister: she was a Beta and he is an Omega.  Bluntly speaking, his body is better formed for the delivery of a child without danger to the mother.  And after my examination of your husband, I can confirm that there is nothing to worry about in this area."  
  
John felt an overwhelming sensation of relief, so much so that he had to hide his emotions by taking several sips of his sherry.  
  
"However," Dr. McCormick said firmly.  "None of that will matter unless Lord Sherlock's health improves significantly.  He _must_ gain weight, and he _must_ get more rest."  
  
"I know that Sherlock is finding both difficult right now," John said, "although when he was eating the Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy's ginger biscuits regularly he seemed in better trim."  
  
"Then by all means, he should take them up again," McCormick said.  "However, I know of another, _better_ , aid to both issues."  The doctor leaned forward slightly, fixing John with a piercing look.  "While I don't wish to pry, my lord, may I inquire whether you and Lord Sherlock are sharing a bed?"  
  
"What?" John asked, immediately flustered by the question.  "Um, no, we have separate bed-chambers.  With Sherlock being so unwell - I would never..."  His voice trailed off and he bolted the rest of his sherry.  
  
"Your thoughtfulness does you credit, my lord, but I'm afraid it is the reverse of what your husband needs at present," McCormick said frankly.  "I imagine you had very little instruction in Omega biology when you were in medical school - surgeons don't, as a rule.  As such, you are perhaps not aware of the dependence of Omegas on their Alphas.  It is a legacy from a less-civilized time, when a pregnant Omega without an Alpha had a low chance of survival."  
  
John frowned, trying to wrap his mind around this idea.  "When we were in London," he said slowly, "before Dr. Samuels was called in, Sherlock was markedly better.  I thought it was the ginger biscuits helping him feel well, but we _were_ sharing a bed during that time."  
  
"Loath as I am to discount Lady Margaret's ginger biscuits," McCormick said drily, "I would be inclined to credit your sleeping arrangements instead."  
  
John nodded slowly, thinking over this.  "Did you tell this to Lord Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes, I did.  He seems a highly intelligent young man, not inclined to missishness.  And speaking of London - if I were you, I would take your husband back there as soon as it is feasible."  
  
John gave him a startled look.  "You don't think that it's healthier for him to remain here, at Saughton?"  
  
"Not when he is clearly blue-devilled at the prospect of being separated from the work that is so important to him."  
  
"He can take up the Work again?" John asked, relief again overwhelming him.  "Oh, thank God!  He has been so miserable."  
  
"If Lord Sherlock was inclined to be delicate I might advise otherwise, but I see no reason why he shouldn't resume his usual activities," McCormick said.  "Within reason, of course.  No dashes across London in pursuit of dangerous felons, mind!" he said with a smile.  "Although I will miss your tales of his more daring cases, Lord Saughton.  I admit to being an avid follower of your adventures."  
  
Dr. McCormick finished his sherry and rose, shaking John's hand and promising him the name of one of his students who had opened a practice in London.  John parted with the specialist in a much relieved frame of mind and hurried upstairs to see how Sherlock had taken the news.  
  
Sherlock, it transpired, was transported by the news.  His look was positively radiant and he rushed across the room to clasp John's hands.  "John!  Did you hear?  I'm to be allowed my Work, _and_ to return to London, should we wish!"  His excitement faded a little as he said, anxiously, "You _do_ wish to return to London, don't you, John?"  
  
"I do, indeed - as soon as you would like," John said promptly.  "Tomorrow, if you so choose."  
  
Sherlock's joy was restored in full although he immediately said, "Oh, not tomorrow!  We couldn't possibly!  There are the hives to see to - and I have several experiments that I wish to perform while we are here.  And Georgie would never forgive us if we left before the Hunt Ball!  I promised her the first two dances."  
  
"Then we return at the end of October, as we originally planned," John said.  Recalling what else the doctor had said, he cleared his throat. "Sherlock, Dr. McCormick spoke to me of another matter."  
  
"The diet?" Sherlock said and shrugged.  "You were correct to be apprehensive about it, it seems.  I will agree to eat whatever Cook prepares, although I don't guarantee that it will sit well with me."  
  
"About that," John said, shifting to stare at the floor instead of Sherlock in order to keep from blushing.  "It was Dr. McCormick's opinion that you would benefit from - from our sharing a bedchamber at night."  He licked his lips, waiting for Sherlock's response.  
  
"Ah, yes," Sherlock said in reply, his voice sounding a bit strangled.  "I would be amenable, if it would improve my health."  
  
"Good.  Right."  John's eyes darted around the room, flicking over Sherlock.  "Um. How...?"  
  
"Since my hours tend to be irregular, I recommend that I come to your room when I am ready to sleep, if that is amenable to you."  
  
John nodded, relieved that they could come to such a quick agreement.  
  
Sherlock then said, "What about Mycroft?  He won't be happy when we return to London."  
  
"You leave Mycroft to me," John told him.  "He may be your brother but _I_ am your husband.  This decision and its consequences are _mine_."  
  
Sherlock bit his lip, an uncertain look on his face.  "Mycroft can make things...difficult...when he has his mind set on something.  Perhaps I should talk with him."  
  
"No, I'll tell him our decision," John said firmly.  "I'm not afraid of your brother." 

With a reassuring smile for Sherlock, John returned to his study to take up the business of the estate, this time with a much relieved frame of mind.


	37. Part III: Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock enjoy their remaining time at Saughton, then head back to London. On the way, they encounter a mysterious disappearance at an elite boys' prep school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although tartans made an immediately come-back in the Highlands when they were no longer proscribed, in the lowland areas like Edinburgh, their adoption was slower, and was heavily influenced by Sir Walter Scott and the various Societies to which he belonged. 
> 
> The mystery here is a combination of the ACD canon (with some of the lines used or adapted) and the Granada version, with a bit of my own twist so that it fits in with my overarching plot/theme.
> 
> NOTE OF A CHANGE: In one of the comments on Worldbuilding, it was pointed out that either Archie was the result of an affair of Clara's, or his gender (Beta) was wrong. And yes, it was wrong. Originally I had Clara as a Beta but then she couldn't be the Dalmahoy heir to pass on the estate so she needed to be an Omega - and I also wanted an Omega who didn't magically produce children with no problems. Since Harry is an Alpha (Ao in her case) and Clara is an Omega (oo), their children could only be Ao or oo. Archie couldn't be an Alpha because if he was, he could become the Watson heir and John wouldn't have had to marry. So I made Archie an Omega (and have gone back in the story to correct that) - it is another thing that he and Sherlock have in common. In fact, Archie will be a ground-breaking Omega, as seen in the Forward to "Three Continents Watson".

In retrospect, John thought it was obvious that Sherlock's health had improved while they were sharing a bed in London and worsened when they started sleeping alone again.  The only thing that kept John from kicking himself and relinquishing his medical license was the knowledge that Sherlock had missed it as well.    
  
After luncheon, John suggested that they walk out to the Home Farm, something they had yet to do because of Sherlock's ill-health and lack of interest.  Sherlock's beehives had been installed on John's instructions, and the moment Sherlock saw them set up, John could see the keen fire of interest re-ignite.  Within moments, Sherlock and the master of the Home Farm were hunched over the hives, exchanging terms so foreign to John that he soon became lost. Mrs. Wimmering came to his rescue, inviting him into their house for tea and fresh scones, plying him with the new jams she'd just put up.  
  
Sherlock was in a much improved frame of mind as they walked back to the main house again, explaining to John about the innovations he was hoping to incorporate into Saughton's apiary.  John listened with interest, trying to ask intelligent questions for the pure pleasure of seeing Sherlock smile approvingly at him and for hearing Sherlock expound on the subject.  Sherlock made a good effort with his dinner, although still not eating as much as he had before their departure from London, then disappeared into his laboratory to set up his new distillation equipment.  When he rejoined John for tea, it was clear that he was pleased with the results of his purchase.  
  
The change in sleeping arrangements had an immediate effect on Sherlock's health, just as the lifting of the ban on London and the Work had improved his mood.  For the first time in weeks, Sherlock ate a decent breakfast, without a return of the morning sickness.  Within days, his thin cheeks had begun to fill out a little as well as gaining a bit of natural colour.  His step was once more brisk, his attitude purposeful.  He no longer lounged listlessly on the sofa as his time was spent between his bees and his experiments.  And when he slipped into John's bed in the late night hours, his rest was more complete than previously.  
  
John found that his own rest was vastly improved as well.  The regular presence of another person in his bed seemed an antidote to the nightmares that frequently plagued him, and there was a bone-deep sense of completeness in having his Omega resting within his arms.  He would wake in the middle of the night just to gaze upon Sherlock's face and reassure himself of the Omega's presence before falling back to sleep.  This interruption in his sleep didn't seem to affect the quality of his sleep, though, and the faint swelling of his husband's abdomen pressing against his side as Sherlock slept stirred something primal and proud inside of John.  
  
The only thing lacking was cases.  
  
John suspected Mycroft's hand in this, but although he fumed, there was not much that Sherlock could do about the matter until they returned to London.

* * *

October brought with it pheasant season and the start of fox hunting in Scotland, along with an influx of English nobility.  Harry was a member of the local hunt club, and although she offered John a mount he refused.  The sport had always held little interest for him and he had never been long enough in the leg to be a good hunt rider.  However, he was a keen hunter and often joined the local shoots for woodcock and pheasant, providing regular contributions to their dinner table.   
  
October also brought the last of the harvest and the annual Public Day at Saughton, when the house and grounds were open to casual visitors.  As the past year's Public Day had been cancelled because the family was in mourning, there was a lot of anticipation about this year's event.  Mrs. Turner had several girls in from the village to help scour down the floors and clean the public rooms, while Cook turned out a staggering number of pasties and pies.  On the day itself, John circulated among his tenants and the visitors from the local village and Edinburgh, and that evening he led out Sherlock to start the dancing as the fiddlers struck up a lively tune.  Everyone agreed that it was a great success.  
  
Hard on its heels was the penultimate event of Edinburgh's social season, the Caledonian Hunt Ball in mid-October.  All the young people who had made their début that Season were present for this final event, arrayed in their finest silks and tartans, as Scottish fashion had been making a steady inroad, thanks to Sir Walter Scot's novels.  While John and Sherlock eschewed kilts, John wore a new tartan coat with deep green knee-breeches and Sherlock donned the Watson plaid along with his formal black Court tail-coat and knee-breeches.  John privately thought that his husband was one of the most elegantly attired of those in attendance.  
  
Georgia looked splendid in kilt and velvet jacket, with the Dalmahoy tartan proudly draped over her shoulder.  She claimed Sherlock for the first set of dances, and as they were all reels and jigs, John was left to wander the Assembly Hall, greeting old friends and relations.  His uncle Alexander was in attendance, as well as his brothers - the Earl of Northesk, formerly Admiral William Carnegie, who had given both of John's naval brothers their start, and Lt. Col. George Carnegie, who had recommended John to the Horse Guards at the start of his army career.   John was invited to join them at supper to which he readily agreed.  He also saw his old school friend, Hugh Percy, now the Duke of Northumberland, who invited him to break his return journey to London at Alnwick so they could discuss the innovations made on the estate - before he was dragged off by his wife to join in a reel.   
  
John was reunited with Sherlock as the break for supper was called, and he found his husband was becomingly flushed by his exertions.  He escorted Sherlock to the supper room where they joined the Carnegie party.  John made the introductions to those who had not been at Clara's party the previous spring and Sherlock was warmly welcomed.  Then they were introduced to a friend of William, the Duke of Holdernesse, who had joined them for the fox hunting.  The Duke was thin and a little worn-looking with an aloof and melancholy air, but his eyes lit up when he was introduced to Sherlock and something like a smile touched his lips.  
  
"You're that detective fellow, aren't you?" Holdernesse asked, then turned to John.  "Marvellous, that story of yours about the aluminium crutch, absolutely enthralling."  
  
John smiled politely and thanked him, and Sherlock said, "By a strange coincidence, Your Grace, I was just reading about the rather ingenious strategy your ancestors used to...liberate rival cattle herds."  
  
Holdernesse gave a bark of laughter.  "Stole them you mean, not to wrap the matter up in clean linen.  Yes they did - and we have the horseshoes on display in the library.  If you are ever passing through the area, you are welcome to stop in to view them."  
  
"Thank you, Your Grace, we shall," Sherlock replied.    
  
The musicians began tuning up for the next set, and as it was to be a strathspey, Sherlock claimed John's hand.  As they made their way to join the forming ranks, Sherlock leaned close enough to John to murmur, "Interesting."  
  
"What is?" John asked.  
  
"The Duke of Holdernesse is married but he is unaccompanied tonight," Sherlock replied, and it was true that while Northesk's lady and George's wife had joined them for supper, Holdernesse had been alone.  "There have been rumours of discord in his marriage, although the source is unstated, and it would appear that they are true.  If she were ill and unable to leave home, he would not be present, so clearly they are apart."  
  
"Is it important?" John asked as he handed Sherlock into their place as the third couple in the set.    
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "It's impossible to know what information might be of future use.  However, I doubt that it is a matter that we will be called upon for assistance."  
  
John could find nothing more to say and, as the music struck up, they turned their attention to other matters.  However, neither of them could have guessed that the personal matters of the Duke of Holdernesse would take on more importance in their lives before long.

* * *

  
As the Hunt Ball capped the Season, many families began drifting back to London or to their estates for the late fall hunting once the event was over.  John spent the last weeks of October finalising plans for the spring planting and reviewing accounts for that year.  Considering the late start and crippling financial burden, they'd made a respectable showing with the harvests that year, nearly breaking even.  John had great hope that the following year would be even better.  
  
Sherlock was feverishly devoting himself to the wintering of his hives.  He, too, had great hopes for the spring and had drawn up detailed plans for their set up and maintenance.  His health had continued to improve, and John was secretly pleased to see that evidence of Sherlock's condition was becoming clear as Sherlock steadily gained much needed weight.  John looked forward to their return to London although he couldn't help feeling a little apprehension about the coming confrontation with Mycroft.  
  
Harry and Clara were faced with a quandary, however.  As Hugh Coachman had returned to London with Mycroft's travelling carriage, John and Sherlock had arranged to journey with Clara in the Dalrymple's barouche.  She was taking Georgia to London during the Little Season so that the young Alpha would have a chance to find her feet in smaller company, as well as have fittings for her Court suit.  Harry would remain at Dalmahoy with Archie, and then Clara and Georgia would rejoin them at Christmas.  However, a week before they were to depart, Janet's nursery maid quarrelled with her and ran off with the fishmonger's son.   Janet had immediately taken to her bed, declaring that she was beset by Vipers in her Bosom.  Since the children couldn't be left unattended, Clara had brought them to Dalmahoy again, which led to a further dilemma for Janet was milking the situation and it would doubtful that she would be on her feet before they left.  
  
"I'd look after the tots myself," Harry said to John when they drove over to Dalmahoy the day before departure.  "But the Lord knows I'm useless with young ones.  I'd tell Clara to put the matter back in Janet's lap where it _should_ be, but Clara dotes on them and, well, I can't say no."  
  
John could see that, and he could also tell that having the children there eased Clara's yearning for a houseful of children.  But he, too, doubted Harry's ability as her paternal instincts swung between fond indulgence and absent-minded but benign abandonment.  
  
It was Sherlock, of course, who came up with the solution as they sat down to dinner.  
  
"Georgia should come with us," he said as the footmen were serving the first course.  "We are invited to the right sort of parties for her to attend, and John is an excellent chaperone."  
  
Harry and Clara exchanged a look.  "That might work," Harry said slowly.  
  
"But Sherlock - in your condition..."  Clara's voice trailed off delicately.  
  
"Nonsense," he said firmly.  "I am in excellent health now, improving daily."  
  
"She's referring to your confinement, Sherlock," John pointed out.  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "That is months away.  By the time I must retire for propriety's sake, it will be Christmas, and John and I can bring her back here with us."  
  
John gave Sherlock a surprised look as he'd thought they would remain in London through the baby's birth.   But later, in the privacy of their bedchamber, Sherlock said, "London in January is dreadful and boring.  I know that you would prefer to oversee the spring planting yourself, and I must be here for my hives, John."  
  
But now John just gave his husband a surprised look while Georgia clapped her hands together in delight and said, "It's a capital idea, Mama!  Papa, may I please go?"  
  
"You can trust me to follow your instructions regarding Georgia's Court suit," Sherlock said, addressing himself to Clara.    
  
Harry and Clara exchanged another look and John could see they were on the verge of agreeing.  As Archie was looking sulky over his sister's proposed treat, John added, "And then, during the Season, Archie could come to us at Saughton in turn.  You and Clara will be busy escorting Georgie to society events, and as Sherlock will be recovering from his confinement, I am certain that he would like the company for his experiments.  And when we come down to London in May, we can bring him with us."  
  
Archie's face lit up at this and he added his entreaties to his sister's.  After a minute of their beseeching, Clara threw up her hands with a laugh.  
  
"All right, all right!  We accept - and thank your uncle's properly, children!  Georgie, whooping and dancing like a heathen is _not_ proper behaviour for an Alpha!"

* * *

  
Thus it was that early the next day, on a Saturday morning in late October, John, Sherlock, and Georgia bade farewell to Harry and Clara.  Snug in the Dalmahoy's well-equipped carriage, with Wiggins on the box seat and their luggage secured, they set out from Edinburgh to Alnwick.   They made excellent time due to the dryness of the roads and the mildness of the temperature, and John was surprised by the vast improvement in the roads east compared to the previous winter.  He supposed that, with the improved economy and the rumour that the King would visit Edinburgh in the following year had made it advisable to improve the roads.  In any event, they arrived at Alnwick castle at a reasonable time in the evening, and found their hosts both warm and welcoming. 

A light supper was ready to hand, and after washing the dirt of the road away, they made a merry meal before retiring to their beds.  They spent Sunday at Alnwick since travelling that day was difficult, and John and his host indulged in discussions about the new drainage system and visits to the estate cottages so that John could see the improvements.  John was impressed and made many notes that evening while the others spent the evening playing cards. 

The Duchess had just called for the tea tray when a disturbance in the front hall caught their attention.  The butler entered looking highly affronted and announced that a Person had arrived, inquiring about Lord Sherlock's presence and begging to see him.  After exchanging baffled glances with his guests, Northumberland ordered that this man, whose card read "Thorneycroft Huxtable, Ph.D.", was to be admitted to the salon.  The butler withdrew, returning a few minutes later escorting a large and dignified-looking man who immediate fell down insensible on the carpet.  
  
John sprang to his feet and hastened to the man, checking his pulse and other vital signs.  The man's face was pale and lined with worry, and the bags under his eyes spoke of several sleepless nights.  His collar and cuffs bore the dirt of a long journey, his hair was all awry, and his face was unshaven.  John wondered what calamity could have driven this man to travel so hard.  
  
"How is he, John?" Sherlock asked, standing next to him and peering down at the man.  John had no doubt that he had learned the man's entire history from the state of his coat and the wear on his shoes.  
  
"It is just exhaustion, brought on by fatigue and hunger,"John said.  "Brandy should help restore him, and perhaps a sandwich?" he said, looking past Sherlock to the Duchess.  She nodded to the butler who withdrew, closing the salon doors behind him, just as Dr. Huxtable's eyes fluttered open.  
  
The man groaned and put a hand to his face as he turned crimson.  "Please, forgive my weakness, Lord Sherlock," he said, his voice laced with fatigue.  He tried to get up but collapsed again with a groan.  
  
"Slowly," John cautioned, and with Northumberland's help, they assisted the man into a chair.  John pressed a glass of brandy into Huxtable's hand, refusing to allow him to say a word until he'd taken a few sips and colour had returned to his cheeks.  "Now, what is it that has driven you to such extremis, and how did you know where to find us?"  
  
"The Duke of Holdernesse informed me that you had planned to visit at Alnwick on your return to London."  Huxtable turned his eyes toward Sherlock.  "Forgive me in coming to you in this way, and of encroaching upon the hospitality of this place, but I am driven by the most _dire_ of events," he said.  "The Duke's only son has been abducted!"  
  
"What!"  Sherlock and John exchanged a look, recalling the man who had shared their table at the Hunt Ball's supper, then Sherlock focused his sharp gaze on the man.  "Dr. Huxtable, kindly tell me every detail about this matter: what happened, when it happened, how it happened, and how you come into the matter."  
  
Huxtable nodded.  "I am the founder and principal of the Priory, a preparatory school in Mackleton, near the Duke of Holdernesses' estate in Richmond.  It is the best and most select preparatory school in England, and among my pupils are the sons of Lord Leverstoke, the Earl of Blackwater, and Sir Cathcart Soames. 

"At the start of this term, the Duke of Holdernesse entrusted his only son, Lord Saltire, into my care.  Lord Saltire is ten years of age, a charming young lad who has not always been happy at home, according to His Grace's secretary, Mr. James Wilder.  It was for this reason that His Grace decided to send the boy to school, and he chose the Priory as it lies a mere five miles away from Holdernesse Hall.  He felt that the boy would be less homesick, and Lord Saltire appeared to be settling in quite well.  
  
"Lord Saltire was last seen on Thursday night - three nights past.  He went to bed at the usual hour, and it was only the next morning that his absence was discovered.  I immediately roused the whole school and a roll was called.  All the students and masters were present, except for Lord Saltire and the German master, Heidegger.  He had apparently left in the middle of the night as well.   
  
"My first thought was that Lord Saltire had become homesick and run away home, but Heidegger's disappearance casts a more sinister view on the matter.  Inquiry was made at Holdernesse Hall immediately but none of the staff have seen the boy.  The local constable, by the name of Tiller, has searched the neighbourhood, but they have found no trace of the fugitives.  I set out yesterday afternoon to seek your assistance, having exhausted our resources to no avail.  I beg of you, Lord Sherlock, that you return to Mackleton with me at once, if we can but hire a conveyance!"  
  
"Mackleton." Sherlock said, frowning slightly in thought.  "That is in Yorkshire, off the Great Road, is it not?"  
  
"Yes, indeed!"  
  
"You are in luck, then,  for we are travelling in that direction on the morrow and have space for you in our carriage."  
  
"Oh, but, Lord Sherlock - "  Huxtable protested.  
  
"We will not be leaving tonight," John said firmly.  "You need food and rest, and we cannot travel far in the dark.  The morning will be soon enough to begin the journey."  
  
Huxtable reluctantly agreed and was handed over to the housekeeper, to be settled into one of the guest rooms.  Since they needed to leave early the next morning in order to make the journey to Mackleton in one day, the Saughton party also retired for the evening.  As they prepared for bed, it was clear that Sherlock was already mulling over the case, but instead of forgoing sleep as he often did during a case, Sherlock blew out the candle and slid into bed with John.    
  
"Any thoughts about the boy's disappearance?" John asked, rolling on his side so that Sherlock could settle against his back.  
  
"Four, no, five," Sherlock replied.  "However, I must see the boy's room, as well as that of the German master first."  He sighed and tucked his cold feet under John's for warmth.  "I must wait for more data."

* * *

  
They set off early the next morning, bidding farewell to their hosts and settling into the carriage for a long day of travelling.  Georgia was so excited at the prospect of participating in one of her uncle's cases that she didn't mind sharing her seat with Dr. Huxtable.  He appeared much improved by a night's rest and a meal, although it was clear that he was anxious to return to his school.  To distract him, and also to provide Sherlock with more information, John asked him more details about the layout of the school, the land surrounding it, and the teachers and students.  Dr. Huxtable was more than willing to talk about the Priory, and it was clear that he was proud of the school - perhaps too proud and willing to overlook its defects.  In this way, they were able to learn the specifics about young Lord Saltire's room, that of the German master, the general schedule for classes and meals, and the names of the friends that the boy had made.  They also learned that Lord Saltire was an Omega, and as the only heir of the bloodline, would carry the title on to his future spouse.  They also learned that the only other thing missing from the house was an old lantern that had been stored in the shed outside.  
  
"Has the boy received any letters recently?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Only one, on the day of his disappearance," Huxtable replied.  "From the Duke - I recognized his hand-writing on the envelope."  
  
"I assume they come to a central location and are distributed to the boys from there?" Sherlock asked and Huxtable nodded.  "Are the letters opened?"  
  
"No, unless the parents request it for the Omega lads in my charge.   His Grace had no such instructions."  
  
"Had he received a letter previously?"  
  
"Yes; on every Thursday he received a letter from the Duke - quite regular in his habits he was."  
  
"Nothing from his mother?"  
  
"No, nothing, although he is not forbidden to write to her, nor to receive her letters."  
  
Sherlock leaned back against the seat, frowning.  John thought for a moment then said, "The arrangements of the rooms - you said that Lord Saltire's room was one of a set of rooms, reached from a small common room, and that his was a private room.  Is this the normal arrangement?"  
  
Huxtable nodded.  "I should say that Lord Saltire's room was equipped for two, but his was a late enrolment and so arrangements had not been made for him to share the room.  The boys generally arrange sharing among themselves; I find it creates less friction and ill-will."  
  
"Though I imagine it makes for more mischief," John said, remembering his own school days.  
  
Huxtable smiled and shrugged.  "Boys will be boys, after all."  
  
"The other boys sharing the common room - they are Omegas as well?"  
  
Huxtable nodded.  "Oh my, yes.  Our Omegas are housed on the second floor, and our Alphas on the first, with classes and dining room on the ground floor.  There are teachers' rooms on each floor, by the staircase, to monitor access."  
  
"And they didn't see or hear anyone come up to the second floor, nor did they see Saltire or Heidegger leave," Sherlock said, his frown deepening.  
  
"Yes.  And two of the boys in Lord Saltire's set were studying late - for a Latin examination - and said that he didn't come out of his room all night, not even to use the privy."  
  
A few more questions garnered information about Holdernesse Hall and its inhabitants.  The Duke, it appeared, was rarely in residence as he was heavily involved in politics and the War Office - which explained how he had come to be such great friends with John's uncles.  He was indeed estranged from his wife, Lord Saltire's mother, and she had recently taken residence in the south of France.  The estate was run by Mr. Wilder, and John was surprised to learn that he was both young and an Alpha.  Inquiring after the circumstances, they learned that Wilder's mother had been a family friend and that after her death, the Duke had taken young Wilder into his household, raising him to manage the estate.  Sherlock appeared to absorb the new information like a sponge.  John, however, knew that he'd have to refer to notes when he wrote up the case.  Since writing in a moving vehicle was as difficult for him as reading, Georgia recorded this new information in a surprisingly legible copperplate - surprising to John because Harry's handwriting was abominable and Clara's so cramped that he could barely make it out.    
  
They switched horses several times during the ten hour journey, stopping halfway at Chester-le-Street for lunch, and arrived at the Priory School shortly before six that evening.  Dr. Huxtable had them shown to rooms in the Visitor's wing of the school, set aside for the parents of prospective students.  Warm water was brought so that they could remove the grime from travel, and an hour later they sat down to an excellent dinner with Dr. Huxtable and his staff.  While several of the professors were eager to talk to John about his stories, most of them didn't know quite what to do with Georgia and ignored her.  She took it in stride, long accustomed to the inequality meted out to Alpha females.  When mid-way through the first course the History master seated on her right brought up the upcoming debate in Parliament regarding universal suffrage, however, Georgia joined into the discussion in her usual forthright manner, and before long her end of the table was engaged in a spirited debate.  
  
Sherlock, for his part, seemed content to sit back and observe, his eyes fixed upon one of the masters for a time before another came under his gaze.  John was accustomed to this and filled in the conversation, allowing Sherlock to gather data unimpeded by talk and other such social niceties.  Sherlock didn't appear to linger on one teacher more than another, and John didn't know if that was good or bad.    
  
Once dinner was over, Sherlock requested that they be shown first the boy's room and then the missing German master's.  In each, he spent a little time looking over the room, making note of what was missing, and then even longer hanging out of the windows so that he could study the walls.  When he finished, he requested a lantern and then led John and Georgia outside.  While John held the lantern, Sherlock spent a long time studying the wall again and then the ground under each window, as well as the plantings along the wall, even getting on his hands and knees to look closely at the grass under the teacher's window.  
  
"See here, John, how the grass is dented and the impression of a man's boot heel has been made?  Heidegger has climbed down the ivy and you can see where it has detached from the wall just there, causing him to land heavily here.  And over here, below the boy's window, there is no such impression but there is a scrap of fabric caught in these bushes.  Several personal items are missing from the boy's room; he bundled them together in the pillowcase and tossed them down before descending.  The boy set off in that direction," he added, turning to face the road that encircled the school, but pointed towards the open field beyond it.  "The German master went in this direction," Sherlock said, turning toward a shed near the back wall.  "He went to the shed, no doubt to fetch the lantern, then headed in the same direction."    
  
He paused and turned to John, and in the lantern's light he could see by the inquiring lift of Sherlock's brow that he expected this to mean something to John.  John frowned for a moment in thought and then said, slowly, "If they went off together, if this was planned, why didn't Lord Salter go to the shed with Heidegger?  Wouldn't he have needed light as well?"  
  
"Exactly!" Sherlock said triumphantly.  "Two separate actions took place.  The boy climbed down from his window in the middle of the night, taking the things he thought were necessary for his journey.  A handkerchief, probably with some coins knotted in it, a change of shirt and under things, and the letter."  
  
"The letter?" Georgia asked.  "The one from his father?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "Yes.  The most recent letter is missing from his desk, although the others are there.  Something in that letter precipitated his flight from school."  
  
"But what?"  
  
"That we will have to ask His Grace when we visit him tomorrow.  In any event, Lord Saltire headed across the fields in a direct line for Holdernesse Hall, without a means of lighting his way, although it is possible that he had concealed a lantern earlier.   Meanwhile, the German master was up late grading examination papers - they are on his desk, along with a guttered candle.  He was fatigued and opened his window in the hope that the cool night air would revive him, and he saw the boy heading across the field.  There was no time to summon assistance, so he climbed down from his window, dropping heavily the last few feet.  The boy was out of sight, and fearing he wouldn't catch up with him in the dark, he fetched the lantern from the shed.  Then he went after the boy, across the moor.  It is a peculiarly desolate plain, with few houses, fit only for sheep or cattle.  Neither arrived at Holdernesse or returned here, so they either had a different destination in mind, they encountered some difficulty, or they were intercepted."    
  
He stared out over the fields for a long moment, then turned back to John and Georgia.  "There is nothing more we can do until day."  
  
"Then I suggest we get some rest," John said, and led the way back into the school.    
  
He knew better than to think that Sherlock would sleep this night, and Sherlock did little more than shed his coat and waistcoat before pulling on his dressing gown.  John changed into his nightshirt and, after seeing Sherlock settled in an armchair by the fire with his pipe, he crawled into bed alone for the first time in weeks.  Despite that, Sherlock's presence nearby seemed to be enough to ward off the nightmares, for he slept the night through and only woke in the early morning when Sherlock shook him awake.  
  
"Rise and dress, John," Sherlock ordered.  "Here is chocolate, and there is coffee and toast in the next room, but you must make haste for we have much to do this day!"  
  
John sat up and accepted the warm cup gratefully for the fire had not yet been made up and the room was chilly.  He saw that Sherlock had changed into his buckskins and a rougher coat, with a simple kerchief knotted about his neck.  Despite his lack of sleep, his eyes shone and his cheeks were flushed with excitement.  He was such a different man from the one who had lain on the parlour sofa at Saughton for all those weeks, so pale and listless, and it quite lifted John's spirits to see Sherlock so eager to be about his Work.  He felt a sudden gratitude to the Dowager, and to Clara, and to Dr. McCormick, for helping him restore Sherlock to himself again.    
  
So good a mood was he in that John allowed himself to be chivvied into clean clothes and then to a very brief breaking of his fast without more than a grumble for form's sake.  Georgia was also ready for the adventure, having donned the rough tweed trousers that she preferred when knocking about the countryside, as well as a tweed coat, and a stout pair of boots borrowed from one of the local housemaids.  Thus it was in high spirits that the three hurried downstairs to begin their search, while Wiggins was sent off to gather what information he could in Mackleton from the local inhabitants.  
  
In this they were delayed, though, for the Duke of Holdernesse had come to the Priory School, accompanied by a young man whom he introduced as Mr. James Wilder, his secretary.  The young man was stiff and quiet in their presence, but under Sherlock's persistent questioning he confirmed that His Grace had indeed sent a letter to his son the day before his son's disappearance - Mr. Wilder had put it in the post bag himself.  No, there had been no other message or letter sent to Lord Saltire that day, and it had been many months since there had been any communication from the Duchess.  
  
"He has gone to her," Holdernesse said bleakly.  "I don't believe that she had a part in this, but in my letter I refused his request to go to her at Christmas, and thus he has run away to her.  How can he possibly reach her on his own, with what little money he may have saved?  It's my fault."  
  
"That is as it may be," Sherlock said impatiently.  "However, you must allow us to continue our investigation.  It is possible that we shall discover the whereabouts of your son."  
  
Mr. Wilder's lips pinched together and he looked annoyed with the three of them.  "You should not raise His Grace's hopes without substance."  
  
"The let us _obtain_ that substance," Sherlock said coolly.  "Every minute we delay could mean a lost clue."  
  
Mr. Wilder scowled but Holdernesse turned to him and said, "James, if they can find even a trace of the boy, it will be  more than we have now."  He turned back to Sherlock.  "I will keep you no longer.  Let me know the results of your investigation, or if you need my assistance in any way."  
  
After seeing the Duke and his secretary to their carriage, the three of them set off on their delayed trek across the moor in search of the missing pair.  Their hopes were soon dashed, however, when they came to the wide green swathe that cut through the moor, separating the high and rocky ground from the marshy land below.  Sherlock had expected to see a sign that the boy and the German master had passed this way - indeed, if they had been heading for Holdernesse,  they would have had no other choice than to cross here - but there was no trace along the mossy track.  Sherlock scowled as scoured the soft ground for signs of shod feet, but while there were sheep and cow tracks in plenty, there were no prints left by man or boy.    
  
"Where could they have gone?" Sherlock muttered, his eyes casting about for any sign.  Then he straightened with a cry of discovery and ran forward, to where a narrow strip of dirt cut through the moss.  There in the middle of the small dirt strip was a footprint.    
  
"We have them, then," John said, looking around for more signs.  But Sherlock was frowning down at the print, looking puzzled rather than happy.  
  
"A footprint, certainly, but not Heidegger's.  You recall that his print outside the school was clearly that of a short boot, such as one might wear for walking.  This is clearly a rough riding boot, such as those used by a stable hand, and not as large at the German master's footprint."  
  
"Someone else, then, unrelated to this matter, taking a ride across the moor?"  
  
"On what?" Sherlock asked impatiently, gesturing around him.  "There are no signs that a horse has passed this way.  Cows in plenty, but no horses.  Whoever this person is, they can't just have fallen out of the sky - in riding boots - and then ascended again.  And where are Heidegger and the boy?"  
  
For this John had no answer.  They followed the trail of the boots which went on for a few yards before becoming obliterated by cow tracks again.  The land on the uphill side was now thick with gorse while the downhill side became increasingly muddy, and John could see no sign of any human footprint.  
  
But then  John caught sight of something else, deep in the gorse, just barely visible in the thick branches.  It was a foot, a human foot, and it was wearing a short boot.  
  
"Sherlock!" he called out, hurrying over to the brush from which the foot projected.  As he circled round to the other side, he could see that the owner of the booted foot was a tall man with spectacles, the glass in one eye having been smashed, no doubt from the same blow that had crushed his skull.  The man wore a nightshirt with a great-coat fastened over it, and short boots on his feet but no socks.  A broken lamp lay on the ground beside him, and John had little doubt that this was the German master.  
  
Sherlock and Georgia joined him, neither displaying a qualm at the sight of the violence that had been done to this man.  "It is undoubtedly Heidegger," Sherlock said, then looked indecisive.  "We have a dilemma on our hands.  The local constable should be informed of this and brought here.  However, the boy is still missing and possibly in grave danger, and we should continue on this track without delay."  
  
"I can go back for the constable," Georgia said.  "I know the way back to the school, and a message can be dispatched from there.  You must continue on, and you need Uncle John with you."  
  
"Are you certain?" John asked Georgia anxiously.  "There is a murderer about for this injury was not caused by a simple fall."  
  
Georgia rolled her eyes.  "I shall be fine, Uncle John.  I can take care of myself."  
  
To prove her point, she turned on her heel and strode off unerringly in the direction of the school.   John exchanged a look with Sherlock and then they set off in the opposite direction, following the path as it wound through the morass, even though the only signs were those of livestock and no more footprints of any sort.    
  
In due course, they fetched up on the Richmond high road.  Ahead of him John could see an inn with a smithy beside it, and beyond it the the road curved out of sight although he could see the towers of Holdernesse Hall in the distance, not more than two miles away.  John looked at Sherlock inquiringly.    
  
"There is little point in our going to Holdernesse first," Sherlock said.  "If the boy was hiding there, someone would have noticed and told His Grace.  No, it is to the Inn that we must go first, and carefully.  Whomever has taken the boy has already killed once."  
  
They set out on the road towards the inn, seeing no sign of other travellers in the hard dirt of the road.  As they approached the low, squalid building with the sign of a fighting cock handing above the door, Sherlock suddenly gave a low moan and sagged against John.  
  
"Sherlock!" John cried out, alarmed, and wrapped his arm around his husband's waist.  "Are you unwell?"  
  
"Merely fatigued," Sherlock replied, in a thin, wispy voice. 

He leaned even more on John, turning his head as if to tuck his face against John's neck, and gave him a wink to show that he was merely shamming.  John didn't know whether to be relieved or to shove the irritating man off of him for scaring him half to death.  He settled for playing the role of worried husband, calling out to the man sitting outside the inn's door.  
  
"Of your mercy, a table and a glass of a restorative!" John said, guiding Sherlock's steps into the tap room of the inn.  The man scowled at them, which seemed oddly inhospitable for an innkeeper, and led them to a small side room where John eased Sherlock into a chair by a badly smoking fireplace.  The innkeeper brought a none-too-clean glass filled with whisky so cheap that the smell made John's eyes water.  He surreptitiously wiped the rim of the glass and handed it to Sherlock, then dug a coin out of his pocket and held it out to the innkeeper.  
  
"Thank you, my good man," he said in his most genial tone. The man looked down at the coin and grunted, tucking it into the pocket of his grimy waistcoat.  "May I know the name of our host?"  
  
"Reuben Hayes," the man said, grudgingly.  
  
Sherlock murmured something and John leaned down to better hear.  He turned back to Hayes, giving him the friendly smile that had made him welcome among the common soldiers on the Peninsula.  "I am afraid that we are unused to the terrain of this area and my husband has become overtired.  Would you have a room where he can lie down for an hour an recover?"  
  
The man scowled.  "I've only the one room and it's let already."  
  
"Never mind, then," John said.  "We'll just rest here a bit.  Perhaps your wife could come up with something for us to eat?"  Hayes allowed that maybe she could, with no sign of enthusiasm.  "Capital!  I'll just step outside to have a smoke while it's being prepared." 

He turned to Sherlock, bending close to say, in a soft, fond voice, "Now, you just rest here, my dear," before straightening and going outside.  
  
Once outside, John took a great deal of time to light his pipe while he quickly assessed the area.  The only other building was a run-down smithy, and through the open door he could see that a young lad of about fifteen was busy shoeing a rather disreputable looking horse.  He was having a time of it because the nag didn't seem inclined to stand still and tugged against the reins tying him to the post.  There didn't seem to be anyone else to help the boy so John went to his aid.  
  
"Here, lad, let me give you a hand," John said, going to the horse's head.  The gelding nipped at him but John had spent much of his childhood running about the stables at Saughton and he delivered a sharp clip to warn the horse to mind its manners before taking a firm hold on the headstall.  The lad gave him a grateful look and went about his business of shoeing the horse in silence.  John tried to strike up a conversation but either the boy was as taciturn as his employer or he'd been warned off about being a chatterbox.  So John lapsed into silence but he shrewdly observed everything so that he could report his findings to Sherlock.    
  
Once the shoeing was done, John bid farewell to the lad and went back into the inn to join Sherlock.  The innkeeper's wife was just setting down some sort of pie in front of Sherlock, and although she kept her face averted, John could see bruises around her eyes, varying in age and colour, although one was clearly fresh.  He said nothing, wary of an audience, and reluctantly dug into a pie that seemed mostly gravy with bits of chicken so tough they were inedible.  It was with great relief that he heard Sherlock declare that he was well enough to continue on their way.  
  
"And where will you be going?" Hayes asked, eyeing them suspiciously as John gave him another coin to pay for the meal.  
  
"Toward Richmond," Sherlock replied airily, then added, with the air of an amateur hiker who hadn't a clue of his whereabouts, "It _is_ on this road, isn't it?"  
  
"Aye," the man said, with a bit of a sneer for the idiots he thought they were, then pointed down the road.  "Take this road in that direction and you'll get there in the end."  
  
John frowned.  "Doesn't that road go past the castle?  Oh - do you think they'd let us have the loan of a carriage?"  To Sherlock he said, "I'm worried about your fatigue, my dear."  
  
Sherlock demurred but the innkeeper gave a short laugh.  "What, the Dook?  Catch him givin' a man a groat he hain't busted his back for!  I worked in his stables for ten years and he turned me off without a character when the feed stock come up short."  He cursed and spat in the dirt.  
  
Hastily, John bid him farewell and they set off, arm in arm, aware that Hayes was watching them.  Once they were around the bend in the road, John snorted and said, "How can he call himself a proper innkeeper?  He sent us in the wrong direction entirely.  Bad drink, bad food, no beds  - and you can't tell me the room is let because there's no sign of a carriage or even a proper horse, just an old nag barely fit to pull a cart."  
  
"Be that as it may, the room is occupied," Sherlock said.  "I made the excuse of needing the privy and tried the door to the bedchamber.  It's locked, and from the outside."  
  
John stopped in his tracks.  "You think that he's keeping the boy there?  Sherlock, we can't just leave the boy to that villain!"  
  
"We need assistance to rescue him without harm.  You needn't worry about the boy, though.  Mrs. Hayes has a soft spot for him - that's how she got the latest black eye."  Sherlock tugged John's arm and, reluctantly, he let his husband lead him towards the Hall.  "Besides, there's another party involved in this matter and we need to discover who that is, and how they managed to lure the boy away."  
  
"There's something else peculiar," John said.  "The lad working at the smithy was shoeing that wretched excuse for a horse, and he was putting old shoes on it."  
  
Sherlock cocked his head.  "Perhaps he was refastening a loose or lost shoe?"  
  
John shook his head.  "A horse doesn't lose all four shoes at once.  And it wasn't a case of tightening old shoes, either.  All of the nails in the shoes were new."  
  
"New nails in old shoes," Sherlock repeated, and then his face lit up.  "Of course!  It makes sense now!"  
  
As they'd reached the gates to the Hall, he refused to say any thing else for the moment.  They presented themselves at the door and were admitted, the butler clearly having been informed to admit them whenever they arrived.    
  
"His Grace is in the library," the butler said, turning to lead the way. 

Sherlock paused beside one of the paintings in the hallway.  "This is His Grace as a young man, isn't it?"  
  
The butler glanced at it and then nodded.  "Yes, my lord, it is - and very like."  
  
Sherlock gave John a significant look, then turned back to the butler.  "I need you to send a message to the local constabulary," Sherlock said, taking John's notepad from his pocket and scribbling a message on one of the pages.  "Quick as you can," he said, then added, "And gather a half-dozen sturdy men to be ready to rescue Lord Saltire shortly."  
  
The butler's eyes widened, and from the hope that kindled in his eyes, John could see that the boy was a favourite with the staff.  "Yes, my lord."   He opened the library door and announced them.  
  
His Grace looked up from his desk as they entered.  "Lord Sherlock!  Saughton!  Dare I hope that you have good news for me?"  
  
"We have indeed," Sherlock said, striding into the room.    
  
He glanced into a glass case near the shelves as he passed, then called John's attention to the display before taking a seat in one of the chairs set before the desk.  John looked inside the glass case, curious as to what had caught Sherlock's interest, and saw that four curious-looking horseshoes lay within.  Instead of the usual shape, these had been formed to resemble the hoof of a cow.   Beside the shoes was a short description of the raiding parties who used to disguise their horses thus before encroaching on a neighbouring estate to steal their livestock.  
  
"Of course!" John said out loud.  "New nails in old shoes!  He disguised the horse's hooves with these!"  
  
"Exactly,"  Sherlock said with a nod.  "A clever scheme."  He turned to His Grace.  "But before I say more, I need you to send for your son."  
  
Holdernesse scowled.  "What nonsense is this?  My son is missing - "  
  
"Not your younger son," Sherlock interrupted.  "The elder one.  James Wilder."  
  
There was silence for a long moment, then Holdernesse sank into a chair.  "How - how did you know?"  
  
"I had my suspicions when we met him earlier, but they were confirmed when I saw the painting of you as a young man," Sherlock replied.  "He is very like you, particularly around the eyes."  
  
Holdernesse drew a deep breath, then rose and went to the door.  There was a footman outside and he bade him to fetch Mr. Wilder immediately.  Then he turned back to Sherlock.  "Am I to understand that you believe James to be involved in this matter?  That he had something to do with Arthur's disappearance?"  
  
"I do," Sherlock replied, then added, "You are not surprised."  
  
The Duke crossed the room and poured a splash of whiskey into a glass, drinking it down in one swallow.  "No, I'm not," he admitted.  He poured a second drink and went to his desk, sitting down in the large chair behind it.    
  
"James is indeed my son, although not legitimate.  When I was a young man, I fell in love with such a passion as only comes once in a lifetime.  I offered her marriage, although her situation in life was far beneath mine - and what care had I for that?  She refused, for she knew that I aspired to a career in politics and she feared that such a marriage would mar my chances, but willingly came to my bed.  She gave me a son, James, and had she lived, I would never have married another.  
  
"I could not acknowledge James but I raised him, gave him the best of educations and a worthwhile career by my side.  He guessed, of course, in the same way that you did, but seemed content with his life - until I married Eleanor and she bore me a legitimate son and heir.  Since then, his bitterness seemed to poison the very air here.  He is the reason for the failure of my marriage, and for my wife removing to the Continent.  And he hated Arthur from the moment the child first drew breath.  I thought to send James away, but he was all I had left of his mother, and for her sake I would endure much.  But I feared that James might do Arthur a mischief, and that is why I sent him away to the Priory."  He took another swallow of his drink.  "I wondered if he could be involved - I prayed that I was wrong..."  
  
The door opened and James Wilder entered, looking every bit the trim young man they'd seen earlier that morning.  He paused on the threshold as if sensing trouble in the air but Sherlock rose and gave him a smile, the one that no one but John seemed to realize was false.    
  
"Come in!  Be seated!" Sherlock said, gesturing toward the other chair.  "I have news regarding our missing pair."  
  
"News?"  James Wilder came further into the room and the footman closed the door behind him.  He settled in the chair opposite Sherlock, crossing his legs negligently.  "Good news, I hope?"  
  
"Alas, no," Sherlock said, resuming his seat.  "We have discovered the German master, but I am afraid that he is dead."  
  
"Dead?" Wilder echoed, his face turning sickly pale.  "Are you - are you certain?"  
  
"Arthur?" His Grace asked, his face equally pale, his lips trembling.  "Is he - "  
  
"Safe as houses," Sherlock said in reply.  "And less than a mile from your door.  But then, Mr. Wilder has been aware of his location since shortly after the boy's disappearance."  
  
"Dead?" Wilder repeated, hoarsely.  "It can't be!  He said that he never saw the man.  He swore - said that the German master must have run off with a girl, or got drunk and lost on the moor."     
  
"Hayes lied - for it is Hayes who has done the deed, is it not?" Sherlock asked and Wilder nodded.  "You may be spared some of the blame if you tell us the full story, now, before the constable arrives."  
  
Wilder paled even more at this but he seemed to grasp his Alpha pride and straightened up.  "Very well.   Mine was the plan, but it was Hayes who first thought of kidnapping the boy.  I sent a note to Arthur, inside the letter from his father, saying that the Duchess had written to me, appealing for my aid in reuniting the two of them.  I instructed him to slip out of the school at midnight and to meet my agent at the edge of the woods, that he would take him to a safe place where his mother would meet him.  Hayes met him, then took him to the Fighting Cock where he kept him secure.  In another few days, he was to take the boy to a deserted hut on the moors where I would discover the boy and restore him to his home."  He swallowed hard, adding, "I didn't know about the German master.  Hayes swore that no one had seen them, that no one had followed.  He said the man must have slipped off to meet some trollop or was lying drunk in a ditch somewhere."  
  
"Why was Hayes so willing to help you?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Money, of course.  He knew my situation - I had spilled the story when in my cups one night, and he was eager for retribution after losing his place here.  He said that if I had the boy in my hands, you would give me anything I wished," he said, turning to face his father across the desk.  "I promised him a share of my fortune once my demands were met."  
  
"Your fortune?" His Grace said, baffled.  "Your demands?  What demands could you have?"  
  
"That you break the damned entail!" Wilder snapped, showing his temper at last.  "I am your son and an Alpha!  I should be heir, not a snivelling Omega brat!  I have worked hard for you, worked hard on the estate - why should I be denied over the lack of a legal marriage?  I thought that if I could restore Arthur to you, that you would be grateful enough to make me the heir."  
  
"My dear boy," Holdernesse said helplessly.  "I cannot break the entail.  The means are not within my power, for the title was granted by the king.  Only he could break it, and he would never do so for it would cause chaos among _all_ the peerages."  
  
Wilder gaped at him.  "Then it has all been for nothing," he said despairingly.  "I have sacrificed my entire future for nothing."    He buried his face in his hands.  "Oh my God!  What have I done?"  
  
"A very foolish thing, but at least you won't hang for murder," Sherlock said flatly.  He gestured toward the case containing the horseshoes.  "You gave him those shoes, to disguise the tracks of his horse.  When he was finished, he gave them back to you and you restored them to their place, but you didn't clean them thoroughly enough."  
  
Wilder nodded listlessly, barely lifting his head.  "What will happen to me?" he whispered, his voice dead-sounding.  If he hadn't targeted an innocent young boy, John would have felt sorry for him.  
  
"Well, it is a fantastical tale and one that the average constable is likely to dismiss," Sherlock replied.  "The fact of the matter is that Hayes suggested the kidnapping.  Hayes alone met the boy and has had him locked up in his inn.  And Hayes killed Heidegger.  The worst that can be laid at your door is providing the letter that lured the boy out, but even if your father's connections keep you out of jail, these matters cannot continue," he said sternly to Wilder, then fixed his eyes on the Duke.  
  
Holdernesse sighed deeply but he nodded.  "I understand, Lord Sherlock."  
  
The library door opened and the butler entered.  "Your Grace, the constable is here to see you."  He turned to Sherlock and said, "My lord, the men are ready in the courtyard and await instructions."  
  
"Send in the constable," Holdernesse said.  "And escort Mr. Wilder to his room.  His door is to be locked and you are to retain the key, for now."  
  
If the butler was surprised at this news, he said nothing, merely bowing and then following Wilder as he left the room.  A moment later, a bluff, sharp-looking man entered the library with Georgia and Wiggins on his heels.  
  
"Your Grace, we have news about the missing teacher," Constable Tillers began.  
  
"He is dead, yes, I know," Holdernesse said.  "Lord Saughton and his husband, Lord Sherlock, brought me the news.  They have also located my son, and we shall require your assistance in arresting the man responsible for his kidnapping and the death of Heidegger."  
  
Upon being told that they were bound for the Fighting Cock Inn, Tillers' face took on a satisfied look.  "Aye, and that's a man I'll be willing to put the binders on.  Reuben Hayes is a devil of a man.  I just hope the boy hasn't suffered too badly at his hands."  
  
Georgia looked a bit put-out to have missed solving the case, but she had made several notes about the disposition of Heidegger's body.   She and Wiggins were instructed to join the rescue party, and Holdernesse insisted on being part of the group as well, declaring that he owed it to his son to be the first to embrace him on his rescue.  And so it was a fierce little party that descended on the inn before Hayes had a moment to realize what was coming to him.  He put up a struggle but the Duke's servants were more than enough to take him and Tillers slapped the cuffs on him with grim delight.    
  
Mrs. Hayes produced the key to the locked room in a trice and Holdernesse _was_ the first to enter the room where they found young Lord Saltire, tied to the bedpost and gagged but in tolerable spirits.   His father was not so sanguine, his eyes misting as he beheld the marks on the boy's wrists from the ropes and the bruise on his cheek from Hayes' quick temper.  As he sent one of the footmen to fetch the doctor, to reassure himself that his son had suffered no lasting harm, he declared that Saltire would spend this night in his own bed at home.  And so the Duke's party returned to Holdernesse Hall, while Constable Tillers conveyed the other three to the Priory School before taking his prisoner to jail.

Huxtable greeted the news of the boy's rescue with great joy and satisfaction.  He had collapsed upon being informed of the German master's fate, hourly expecting to be told that Lord Saltire had also been found dead, and visualising the ruin of his school, so this good news nearly over-set him again.  But he rallied enough to declare the next day a holiday for the boys, and to prepare the school to honour the deceased Heidegger on the following day.  
  
It being too late to progress to London and having had a long and tiring day, the London party spent another night at the Priory, and John had the satisfaction of seeing his husband take his well-deserved rest in his arms.  Some other reassurances were exchanged during the night, and thus it was a well-satisfied party that sat down to breakfast prior to their departure.  
  
John was pleased to see Holdernesse and his younger son enter the hall just as they were rising from the table.  Lord Saltire looked none-the-worse for his adventure, although the bruise on his cheek garnered interest and admiration from his fellows.  Now safely restored to his father, Saltire was inclined to be rather puffed up to have had such an adventure.  Holdernesse was still reluctant to part with him after such a narrow escape, and so it had been decided that Saltire would spend his weekends at home for the near future.  
  
"You needn't fear that James will do him harm," Holdernesse informed them quietly.  "I have arranged for him to travel to Canada in the company of the local detachment and they are to leave on the morrow.  I have given him sufficient money and a written recommendation, and I have no doubt that he will make his own way in the world.  My only grief is that I will doubtless never see him again, in this life."  
  
"And your lady wife?" Sherlock asked.  "You have done her great wrong by allowing his interference in your household."  
  
"I am conscious of it," His Grace said, nodding.  "I have dispatched a letter to her this morning, begging her forgiveness and asking her to return home, so that we may try again.  With God's blessing, the New Year will see our family reunited."  
  
John was glad to hear this news and wished both the Duke and his son well.   Then word came that their carriage was at the door so they bade farewell to the Priory School, once more setting out for London. 

Georgia was inclined to be gleefully smug at her part in the adventure, and John had no doubt that her brother and parents would soon be receiving a letter full of the tale.  Sherlock, however, made up for the lack of sleep over the previous two days by curling up with his head on John's lap and didn't wake until they reached Wetherby for luncheon.  

And as for John, he settled back against the cushions of the carriage, and as he stared out the window at the passing landscape, his hand absently carding through his husband's curls,  he thought about how he would record this adventure for his future readers.


	38. Part III: Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return to London, and John has two uncomfortable encounters. He also finds help from an unexpected source.

They reached London in the late afternoon on Saturday, a week after they initially set out and three days after leaving the Priory School.  John had sent a messenger ahead of them from Richmond, so when they arrived at Baker Street, that good lady was ready to receive them.  Mrs. Hudson exclaimed over Sherlock's appearance, in particular the visible swell of his belly, and he suffered her attention with resignation and the patience only ever extended to her.    
  
The reorganization of the household to accommodate their house guest had already been accomplished, and Georgia was soon settled for a nap in Wiggins' old bedchamber, with a warmed brick at her feet.  John found that his own bedchamber had been rearranged for Wiggins' use, as John would be sharing Sherlock's bedchamber until their return to Saughton, although his clothes had to remain in his old room as Sherlock's wardrobe was extensive.  John knew that he would have to do something about their living situation when they returned to London following Sherlock's confinement.  The nursery-maid would need the room currently housing their parlour maid, and Wiggins could not be constantly shuffled around whenever they had a house guest.  He would hate to leave Baker Street, though.  
  
Setting aside the matter for now, he opted for a bath instead of a nap and spent a pleasant half-hour soaking in the tub filled from the odd little heater.  Sherlock had also eschewed a nap and was instead sorting through the vast correspondence they had received during their absence.  Most of the letters were binned, although the invitations were set aside to be reviewed later, but apparently there were a few gems among the dross of cases submitted for Sherlock's assistance.    
  
By the time he'd finished bathing, supper was ready and the three of them sat down to a simple but hearty meal.  The invitations were discussed, and although it was early in the Little Season, a few were deemed interesting enough to accept.  After dinner, Sherlock elected to retire early, finally feeling the fatigue of three days on the road.  Georgia and John sat down to play cards, but within an hour John found himself cleaned out of pocket money while Georgia was twenty guineas the richer.  He laughingly conceded the field, bid her goodnight, and retired to bed.  
  
Sherlock was already asleep when John slipped into bed but, as if sensing John's presence, shifted over to press himself against John's back.  Content with this arrangement, John fell into a deep and restful sleep.

The next morning, after they'd breakfasted following church, Sherlock and Georgia retired to the parlour to pen replies to the many invitations they'd received. Deciding that if he waited any longer he would find Mycroft on their doorstep indulging in a fit of pique, John decided to beard the lion in his den. He bid farewell to Sherlock who immediately discerned his errand.

"Promise me that you won't strike Mycroft, no matter the provocation," Sherlock said to him.  "Much as I would like to see you plant a facer on him, it would only make matters worse, and you would regret it tomorrow."

"I promise," John replied, placing a kiss on Sherlock's forehead in pledge.  "Shall I invite them to dinner tomorrow night?  It's been many months since you last saw each other."

"It might put me off my feed, but yes, do invite him," Sherlock said with a sigh, then his face brightened.  "Perhaps Lestrade will have a new case for me!"

"You could call him 'Greg', you know, as he is your brother-in-law and not inclined to stand on formality."

Sherlock gave him a perplexed look.  "Why would I want to call him that?"

John rolled his eyes.  "Because it's his _name_?  Never mind.  I expect that I'll be home within an hour, unless I have to track Mycroft down to his office or his club."

However, as John had expected, he found Mycroft at home, and John was shown into the library where Mycroft was frowning over a stack of official looking documents.  He looked up, uncharacteristically startled, as the butler announced John and rose to his feet.

"Lord Saughton - forgive me! You have caught me by surprise, which is no easy feat!"

"Is this a bad time?" John asked, hesitating by the door. "I could come back."

"No, no! I am merely reviewing notes concerning a recently foiled attempt to recreate the Gunpowder Plot."  Mycroft frowned as he stared down at the papers. "Odd, as well, for the chief architect was one of our finest diplomats.  But no matter!"

Mycroft hastily stuck the papers into a folder, then came around the desk to shake John's hand. "What brings you to London? How long do you remain - you will dine with me one evening before you return to Saughton? And how did you leave my brother?"

John accepted the chair and glass of sherry that Mycroft offered him.  "Sherlock is very well and sends his regards, although he was not in prime form for some weeks after our arrival at Saughton.  In fact, it is about Sherlock that I have come to see you at such an unreasonable hour."  
  
Mycroft frowned.  "I thought you said he was well."  
  
"He is now, although he was quite ill for many weeks.  That is why I called in another physician who specializes in Omega pregnancies, a Doctor McCormick.  He is both a practitioner and a lecturer at the University of Edinburgh."  
  
Mycroft nodded although he continued to frown.  "I suppose you did as you thought best."  
  
"Yes.  Dr. McCormick was very concerned about Sherlock's health, said that it was quite precarious.  He was losing weight instead of gaining, and could barely keep down what little food he was allowed.  He was also extremely lethargic."  
  
"That hardly sounds like unusual for Sherlock," Mycroft said.  "Do you intend to consult with Dr. Samuels while you are in London?"  
  
"No, I intend to discharge him and I will have Sherlock consult a different accoucheur while we are in London."  John finished his sherry and set down his glass, bracing himself for the storm.  
  
Mycroft's frown deepened.  "You brought Sherlock to London with you?" he asked sharply.  "I thought we agreed that it was healthier for Sherlock to remain in the countryside until his confinement."  
  
"No, _you_ decided that it would be better," John replied.  "You also decided that Sherlock should no longer pursue cases.  The loss of both London and his Work put Sherlock into such a state of despair that he drew up a Will and planned his own burial.  That was when I consulted with the Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy."  
  
"Ah, I should have guessed that she had a hand in this!" Mycroft exclaimed.  "If I had known about your connection to _That Harpy_ , I might have reconsidered contracting Sherlock to you."  
  
"She's not fond of you, either," John said drily.  "She was right, though.  Once I called in Dr. McCormick, Sherlock's health and mood improved dramatically."  
  
Mycroft gave him an indulgent look.  "Of course it did, once he got his way.  You mustn't cater to Sherlock's moods, Dr. Watson."  
  
"It's _John_ , and isn't a successful marriage all about considering a spouse's moods?" John countered.  
  
"Sherlock needs a _firm_ hand, John."  
  
John lifted his chin.  "I think you must leave it to _me_ to decide what Sherlock needs."  
  
Mycroft rose to his feet, towering over John where he sat.  "You overreach yourself, my lord," Mycroft said coldly.  "Without my approval, Sherlock will have _no_ access to cases with the Runners or the Thames River Police."  
  
"I think we'll have enough to do without your approval.  Sherlock is currently sorting through a stack of appeals, and on our way to London, we were called upon by the Duke of Holdernesse to locate his kidnapped son.  Which Sherlock did, with no harm to himself _._ "  
  
Mycroft started at the mention of the influential Duke of Holdernesse, but his previously chilly manner turned downright frigid.  "While I am paying his bills, you will do as I say!"  
  
John's own temper flared and he rose from his chair, facing Mycroft without flinching.  "Then it is just as well that you are no longer paying his bills," he said shortly.  "Not since Sherlock came under my household."  
  
"You are living on _Sherlock's_ money, least you forget!  And I will have _my doctor_ in to see Sherlock, no matter what you say."  
  
"You would need my permission for any doctor to attend my husband," John pointed out.  "I doubt that any reputable practitioner would dispute that."  
  
At this point, Mycroft's iron control cracked and he unleashed a torrent of anger and abuse on John, deriding his intelligence, his antecedents, his prospects, his morals, and any other subject that came to mind.  Throughout it all, John stood silently at parade rest, only the tightening of his jaw betraying the effort it took to keep his word to Sherlock that he wouldn't come to blows with his brother.  
  
When Mycroft finally ran out of words, John relaxed his stance and cleared his throat.  "Right," he said.  "Mycroft, I owe you a great deal, and I respect you, but I don't have the slightest intention of allowing you to rule my household.  If that was what you wanted, you should have chosen another husband for Sherlock.  Speaking of which, I'll give your regards to Sherlock, shall I?  He asked me to invite you and Greg to dinner tomorrow night."  
  
"I would rather eat glass than dine at your table!" Mycroft snapped, looking uncharacteristically ruffled.  
  
"Sherlock will be disappointed to hear that, as will Georgia - did I tell you that she is staying with us until Christmas?" John said, pulling on his gloves and donning his hat.  "None-the-less, the invitation remains open, should you change your mind."  
  
He strode to the door and opened it, surprising both the footman on the other side and the servants gathered in the hallway and on the stairs.  Apparently, Mycroft's voicce had been loud enough to alarm the staff, and John felt himself flushing at the knowledge that they'd been overheard.  However, he tipped his hat to the maids and went unhurriedly down the stairs.  As he reached the ground floor, the front door opened and Lestrade entered.  His face lit up and he extended his hand to John to shake.    
  
"John!  What a pleasure to see you again!  Are you in town for a visit?"  
  
"Through Christmas," John replied.  "We return to Saughton in January, to await Sherlock's lying-in."  
  
" 'We'?  Then Sherlock is with you?"  Lestrade leaned in.  "How did _Himself_ take that?"  
  
The sound of a glass smashing against the library door made both of them wince.  
  
"Ah, not good, then," Lestrade said with a grimace.  
  
"I am sorry for upsetting the harmony of your home, but not for the cause," John said honestly to him.  "Sherlock's health improved dramatically when he learned we were to return to London.  You are both invited to dinner tomorrow night, although Mycroft refused it."  
  
Lestrade snorted.  "Don't worry about Mycroft.  He will come 'round, out of curiosity if nothing more."  
  
John left the house with the amused thought that the Alpha in residence apparently didn't have everything his way.

* * *

 

As Lestrade had promised, the pair of them turned up at Baker Street the next evening, although Mycroft was short in his reply to John's greeting.  John wasn't in the least affronted by this rebuff, merely quirking an eyebrow upward in amusement as he escorted his brothers-in-law up to the family parlour.  Georgia and Sherlock were present, with Georgia by the window and Sherlock lounging in his favourite chair in front of the fireplace.  He glanced up, grimacing at the sight of his brother.  
  
"Oh, it's you," he said dismissively, then gave Mycroft a keen once-over.  "Married life suits you.  You've gained four pounds since we left."  
  
Mycroft gave him a thin smile.  "Two.  And I believe that _you_ are gaining as well, for a change."  
  
"Yes, well," Sherlock replied, running his hand over his swelling abdomen.  "I have an excuse."  
  
"You _are_ looking quite well," Lestrade said with a smile, crossing the room to shake Sherlock's hand.  "Blooming, as a matter of fact - or am I being indelicate in mentioning the matter?"  
  
"He _is_ wonderful, isn't he?" John said, smiling at his husband with pride.    
  
Sherlock glanced over at him fleetingly, a bewildered but pleased look on his face for a moment before it disappeared as he looked back to his brother.  "I'm feeling much better, no thanks to _you_ , dear brother."  
  
Mycroft stiffened, pointedly not looking at John.  "You can't be certain of that.  Had you _remained_ in the country as I instructed - "  
  
"He would be _dead_ ," John said shortly.  " _You know this_ ;  I told you so yesterday."  
  
Mrs Hudson had entered the room carrying a tureen of soup which she set on the table, and she gave Mycroft a disapproving look.  "It's a disgrace, subjecting your brother to such barbarous treatment at the hands of a supposed medical professional.   Family is all we have in the end."  
  
"Oh, do be quiet, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft snapped, apparently goaded beyond all bearing.  
  
"Mycroft!" Sherlock, John, and Lestrade admonished sharply and simultaneously.  
  
Mycroft scowled.  "My apology, Mrs. Hudson," he said, grudgingly.  The housekeeper sniffed a bit indignantly and went off to see to the rest of the meal.  
  
"Surely you aren't in doubt of your own intelligence, Mr. Holmes?" Georgia asked, strolling over from the window where she'd been surveying the populace of Baker Street.  She stood in front of Mycroft, looking up at him inquiringly.    
  
Mycroft frowned down at her.  "Of course not."  
  
"There were reasons why you chose Uncle John to marry your brother, weren't there?  You didn't just select him arbitrarily."  
  
"Most certainly not!"  
  
"Have those circumstances changed?"  Her eyes were fixed on his face.  "Or have you come to question your original judgement in the matter?"  
  
"My dear young woman - "  
  
Georgia continued as if he hadn't spoken.  "And one of the items in Uncle John's favour must have been his proficiency in medicine, which has been commended.   Even though he has little experience in midwifery, surely he has retained his skill in diagnosing and treating patients?"  
  
Mycroft's frown deepened but he said nothing.  
  
"And of course there is the underlying reason for their marriage.  Surely Uncle John wouldn't risk harm to his possible heir?"    
  
Georgia stopped speaking, looking up at him with an innocent and appealing half-smile on her face.  There was a tense silence in the room and Mycroft stared down at Georgia in silence for a long moment before he began to chuckle.  John immediately relaxed, covering his mouth to hide a smile.  
  
"My dear Viscount," Mycroft said after a moment.  "Have you ever considered a career in politics?  I believe that your ability to pull together a cabinet from disparate factions would be unrivalled."  
  
She cocked her head sideways, a thoughtful look on her face.  " 'Georgia Anthea Dalrymple, the first Alpha female Prime Minister'," she said, as if considering it for a moment, then grinned up at him.  "Sounds like too much work, Mr. Holmes.  I think I would prefer to be the power behind the throne."  
  
"Indeed,"  Mycroft said, nodding.  "We will talk, later.  In the meantime, perhaps you would call me 'Uncle Mycroft'?  'Mr. Holmes' seems entirely too formal for friends."  
  
John watched them shake on that agreement and wondered if Clara would kill him for this later.  At the moment, though, it seemed that Georgia's intervention had smoothed the rough waters between the brothers.  From that evening onward, Mycroft said nothing more about Sherlock's presence in London nor his change in physicians, and Sherlock refrained from making digs about Mycroft's appearance.  
  
As John walked them out to their carriage at the end of that evening, however, Mycroft paused after Lestrade had climbed into the vehicle and turned to him.  "You've got your way, my lord, and I'm aware that Sherlock appears much improved so I will not do anything that might throw him into a taking.  But if any ill comes of this, it will be on your head."  
  
John surveyed him impassively.  "It would in any event," he agreed quietly.  "If there is the slightest hint of him taking a bad turn, I will not hesitate to remove him from London.  We will be going back to Saughton after Christmas in any event, for his confinement."  
  
A brief flicker of pain flickered across Mycroft's face.  "You'll let me know how he goes on?"  
  
Although John knew that the brothers cared about each other in a rather off-hand and antagonistic way, he hadn't realized how deeply Mycroft felt about his younger brother.  Impulsively, he said, "Better than that, you should come out to us before he is due.  I believe that Sherlock would be relieved to know that you were nearby, and there is plenty of room."  
  
Mycroft looked surprised at the invitation even as he retorted, "You don't know Sherlock very well if you imagine that he'd be pleased to have me nearby when he's brought to bed."  
  
"I think I know him well enough.  Do come - if for nothing more than to see what the investment of your money has accomplished on the estate."  
  
"I'll think about it," Mycroft said after a moment.  "No need to make a decision tonight.  Good night, John."  
  
John closed the carriage door behind him and politely waited until the vehicle had turned the corner before turning back toward his open front door and the comforts within.  As he did, though, his eyes caught on the dark windows to the right of 221 and he frowned in thought.  It occurred to him that he'd never seen a sign of occupation, although the rest of the houses along the row had long been occupied.   John decided to broach the subject with Mrs Hudson, that font of local gossip.  But for now he closed and secured the front door, then went upstairs to where Sherlock and Georgia were playing a rather noisy game of cribbage, and where the comfort of his armchair and newspaper awaited.  


* * *

 

Once it was known that they were back in London, there were the inevitable morning visits,  although not as many as they'd had to endure the previous spring.  Those who considered themselves particular friends made the requisite quarter-hour visits, exchanging pleasantries and departing to spread the news that Lord Sherlock was in a promising way.  Since John's affable demeanour met with universal approval and the stories of his husband's cases thrilled the Ton, most everyone who heard the news wished the young couple well.  
  
Those not among their well-wishers were Lord Moriarty and his husband, Colonel Moran, but this was chiefly because they'd been called back to Moran's home in Ireland at the end of October.  It appeared that Augustus Moran, the Colonel's father, had taken a turn for the worse,  and it was unlikely that the couple would return to London before Sebastian had stepped into his father's shoes.  
  
On the third day after John and Sherlock's return to London, their morning callers included Mrs. Morstan and her daughter.  Mrs. Morstan had not intended - nor wished! - to bring her daughter with her on the visit.  But upon hearing of her destination, Mary had insisted upon joining her, citing the need to return a book lent to her by the Countess of Dalmahoy that she desired Georgia to convey to her mother on her return to Scotland.  
  
The visit could not have been said to be a great success for Mrs. Morstan chatted in an unnaturally high voice about their impending removal to Bath for the winter, as if afraid of what might be said in any silence.  John was only too aware of his former love's eyes straying to the all-too-apparent swell of Sherlock's abdomen, which he thought must be a slap in the face to poor Mary.  Georgia was unnaturally silent, her eyes darting between all of their faces while a little frown creased her forehead.  In fact, the only two who seemed unaware of the tension were Mary and Sherlock, who chatted with the casual ease of long-time friends.  
  
Finally Mrs. Morstan realized the time and stood with a hastily manufactured excuse of another appointment, which also reminded Sherlock of an experiment he'd left in his lab.  Georgia immediately recalled that her grandmother had charged her with a package to give to General Morstan and begged Mrs. Morstan to accompany her up to her room while she fetched it.  This left John and Mary alone together in the parlour for the first time since he'd broken off their understanding.  
  
After a moment of awkward silence, Mary said, "So - about Lord Sherlock.  You must be pleased."  
  
"Yes," John said, his voice sounding odd to his ears.  He cleared his throat.  "Very.  And worried, of course."  
  
"He looks well.  Better than at the Coronation party.  _Oh_."  
  
John nodded.  "Yes, that's when I learned - well."  Belatedly, he remembered Mary's own distress at the party and he flushed.  
  
"I made a cake of myself," Mary said bluntly.  "I was miserable and wanted you to feel the same, but you don't, do you?"  
  
"Please, don't say such things," John said pleadingly.  "To know that you are unhappy hurts me."  
  
"Does it?" Mary asked, a queer little smile on her lips.  "I wonder.  If I begged you to run away with me, to leave all of this, would you?  If I told you that I will _never_ forget you, that I never would give you up, could you say the same?  Sherlock would have the estate and your heir, and we could be happy - "  
  
"You mustn't ask that of me," John protested. "How could I leave Sherlock now, like this?   The scandal - "  She made a dismissive noise and he said, heatedly, "You think that he wouldn't care about such things but I assure you that he _would_.  I made a vow to him, Mary."  
  
"And you always keep your promises, don't you?"  Mary gave him a fleeting smile and turned away to the window.  "Don't mind me, John.  I talk utter nonsense from time to time."  
  
"Weren't you - there was talk of someone of a possible engagement?"  
  
Mary shook her head as her finger idly traced a line on the window pane.  "I don't think I'll ever marry,"  she said, an abstracted tone in her voice.  "I doubt that I could find anyone to suit me half as well as you."  
  
John could find nothing to say to this, although he was aware of the same spark of resentment he'd felt at the party.  And when Mrs. Morstan returned to sweep her daughter off to their next appointment, he found that he was relieved that the Morstans were leaving for Bath and that it would be at least a half-year before they met  again.

Driven by an urge that he couldn't put a name to, John went up to Sherlock's laboratory where he found his husband in the middle of his experiment.  Sherlock looked up at John for a brief searching moment, then turned his attention back to his apparatus.

"John.  I am in need of your assistance," he said.  "I am at a critical point in this experiment and I cannot take notes while I observe the results.  I will dictate them to you."

John was more than happy to comply, pulling up a stool and taking up the ledger and pencil.   And for the next hour, he lost himself in the sound of his husband's voice and the brilliance of Sherlock's observations, forgetting everything that lay outside of the walls of 221 Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a [new chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2775011/chapters/9687543) to "A Civil Agreement" that occurs shortly after the end of this chapter and before the next one. It it from Mary's point-of-view, and it isn't necessary to read to understand the plot of the story, but it does give some hints about the plot. Or is it a red-herring?


	39. Part III: Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pursues new cases while John pursues a different sort of mystery.

The next morning brought a visitor of a different sort, a Beta doctor by the name of Moore Agar, of Harley Street, who had been recommended by Dr. McCormick.  He was a young man but he had an air of cheerful competence that immediately appealed to John.   He spent a good bit of time talking with both John and Sherlock about the progress of the pregnancy thus far, taking careful notes.    
  
At the end of the interview, Dr. Agar said to Sherlock, "Your pregnancy appears to be progressing satisfactorily.  I would prefer that you gain more weight, as well as undertake regular exercise."  
  
"Then there is no reason for Sherlock to refrain from his usual activities?" John asked.  
  
Dr. Agar smiled at that.  "Within reason.  I am an avid reader of your tales, Lord Saughton, so I know of what you speak."  He turned back to Sherlock.  "No strenuous chases, if you please, and you must rest and eat regularly, even when working one of your cases.  Other than that, I see no reason why you shouldn't pursue your work, as long as it doesn't cause discomfort.  At least until you return to Scotland; when you get closer to your time."  
  
John looked over at Sherlock to find that his husband was looking at him.  "Sherlock?  Does that sound reasonable to you?"  
  
Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.  "You are asking for my opinion in the matter?"  
  
"Of course," John replied, equally puzzled.  "You are the one most directly affected."  
  
"It is quite possibly _your heir._ "  
  
"And I trust you to know your own limits."  After a moment, John added, "Except about eating and sleeping.  I will ensure that you do both, within reason."  
  
"If that is settled, I would like to perform a brief examination," Dr. Agar said.  "Nothing invasive.  I would like to examine your abdomen and take a few measurements, for the purpose of monitoring your progress over the next two months."  
  
Sherlock agreed and led the way up to his bedchamber, with John following.  Dr. Agar politely turned his back while Sherlock removed his outer clothing, until he was clad in his shirt and smalls.  Once Sherlock had laid down on the bed, the doctor uncovered his abdomen and carefully palpated it before nodding in satisfaction.  
  
"Everything appears to be as it should.  Lord Saughton, if I could have your assistance in recording the measurements?"  
  
John was all too happy to assist, watching as Dr. Agar quickly performed his task with a minimum of fuss and intrusion.  Once he had recorded his findings. the doctor made arrangements for Sherlock to visit his practice in three week's time and then excused himself so that Sherlock could dress.  
  
John escorted Dr. Agar to the door, shaking his hand in thanks for his visit, then hurried back up the stairs to his husband.  
  
"Well?" he asked Sherlock as he entered the bedchamber to find Sherlock lacing his waistcoat so as to support the swell of his abdomen.  "What do you think of Dr. Agar?  Shall we retain him or seek another _accouchier_?"  
  
Again, Sherlock gave him a puzzled look although he answered, "He is acceptable to me, John, if he is acceptable to you."  
  
" _You_ are his patient."  
  
"And _you_ are my Alpha.  It is your right to choose my doctors."  
  
"Just because we're married doesn't mean that I will interfere with your medical care."    
  
Sherlock frowned.  "You do realize that most Alphas would consider it their right to do so."  
  
John shrugged.  "Well, I suppose I'm not like most Alphas."  
  
"So I've noticed," Sherlock said, still frowning.  
  
John picked up Sherlock's coat and held it open for him.  "Did Mycroft choose your doctors prior to our marriage?"  
  
"Of course."  Sherlock put his arms into the coat and settled it about him, smoothing the lapels.  
  
"Surely you had something to say about it," John said.  "I've never seen you without an opinion about _any_ matter.  You'll live forever trying to have the last word with God."  
  
"Of course I had opinions," Sherlock said irritably.  "Not that Mycroft ever listened."  He turned to face John.  "I suppose he had my best interests at heart, the obnoxious bastard."  
  
That sounded more like Sherlock, and John grasped his shoulders, looking at him earnestly.  "Sherlock, I will _always_ listen, and I will _always_ allow you to make your own decisions about your health."  He paused, then added, truthfully, "Well, as long as you aren't doing anything idiotic and unsafe."  
  
Sherlock's real but rare smile lightened his face, followed by his deep chuckle.  John couldn't help grinning at him in response.  "In that case - we must be off.  The game is afoot, John!  There was a peculiar occurrence reported by the night-watchmen the night before last, which the Runners have missed with their usual blindness, but which I feel will be of utmost importance."  
  
Still talking, Sherlock hurried down the stairs and, smiling widely, John hurried after him.

* * *

A few days after the satisfactory conclusion of the case of the Naval Treaty, which centred around a purloined document, John was recording the details of the case in his journal.  Due to the sensitivity of the matter, he wouldn't be able to publish this case for decades - possibly not until the primary players were dead - but he didn't want to forget a single moment of Sherlock's cleverness in discerning the location of the stolen document and the culprit behind the theft of the letter.    
  
It was while he was sitting at his desk compiling his notes that he noticed a most curious matter down in the street.  It was a cold and blustery afternoon in late November and very few people were out in the chilly weather.  A rather portly gentleman was running along the slippery pavement, puffing from what was obviously unaccustomed exertion.  He was attired in elegant if slightly out-dated fashion, except for a hat which appeared to be missing, and his hair was all on end.  He was muttering to himself and peering at the street numbers in a manner that made the few other people outside veer away from him.  
  
"Sherlock," John said after a moment, "I believe that you might have a new client.  Either that, or a madman has escaped from his keepers."  
  
"Capital!" Sherlock leaped up from the sofa where he had been reclining and hurried to stand behind John, peering over his shoulder out the window.  "Yes, I recognize the symptoms."  
  
He cast off his dressing gown and grabbed up his coat, pulling it on as he hurried down the stairs, graceful despite the somewhat increased girth about his middle.  John grabbed his notebook and hurried after him, arriving just in time to see the maid let in the new client.   Up close, the man looked even more insane, with a look of combined grief and despair on his face that quite drove out any inclination to laugh.  
  
"Dear sir!" John said, hurrying forward to give the man his arm, for he looked as if he was about to collapse.  "You are unwell!  Please, come sit down and recover yourself."  He gave Mrs Hudson a speaking look and she went to the decanter to pour out a stiff drink while John saw the man settled on the settee.  
  
Sherlock had already settled into his accustomed chair, his sharp eyes no doubt assessing their client as John saw to the man's comfort.  The man opened his mouth to speak, still audibly panting, but Sherlock held up a hand to silence him, saying with the kindness that John had occasionally seen him display towards distressed clients, "Pray wait till you have recovered yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little problem which you may present to me."  
  
The man nodded, continuing to breathe heavily for a few minutes and then sip from his glass.  "No doubt you think me mad," he said at last.  
  
"Rather I think you suffer from some great trouble," Sherlock replied.  
  
The man gave a bitter bark of laughter.  "God knows that to be true!  Trouble, so comprehensive and sudden that I fear my reason is over-set.  Public disgrace I might have faced, although I have never known a breath of scandal.  Private trouble - well, that is the lot of every man.  A business crisis, that is a far graver matter.  But to suffer all three at one time, and in such a manner - "  He paused and drained the rest of his glass.  
  
"Compose yourself, sir, and then let me have a clear account of who you are and what has befallen you."  Sherlock gestured toward John.  "This is my husband, Lord Saughton.  You may speak freely in front of him as well."  
  
The man nodded.  "I am familiar with Lord Saughton's name and writings - indeed, my solicitor urged me to seek you out because of them. I have just come from his office two streets away from here, and I came immediately."  He set down the glass and took a deep breath.  "I am Alexander Howland, of the banking firm of Howland & Stevenson, of Threadneedle Street."  
  
John raised an eyebrow at this even as he made a note in his casebook.  Howland & Stevenson was the second largest banking concern in the City, just behind John's own bank of Cox & Company.    
  
"One of the services that my bank provides is through loans, and there are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate."  He paused and looked in John's direction.  "We once provided that service to your late father, to fund the marriage of one of your sisters.  Quite an elegant gentleman he was, and very affable.  You have our condolences, my lord."  
  
John nodded his thanks although privately he wondered at this.  It wouldn't have been Harriet's for, as the groom's family, their costs would have been light.  Perhaps it was Helen's, which he vaguely recalled had been a splendid affair, occurring just before he came down to London for his surgeon's training.  
  
"Yesterday morning, I was seated in my office when a card was brought in to me by my clerk, bearing the name of a member of one of the great families of England.  Not His Majesty, for we would be loathe to extend credit in that direction, but a man to be trusted.  He was shown into my office where he disclosed the need for the loan of 20,000 pounds for the length of one week, to be repaid at that time with interest.  To secure the loan, he presented a case containing an emerald coronet.  I was glad to receive the item as security and paid out the requested sum.  Not wishing to leave the item in my office overnight, I took it home with me, to lock it in the desk in my private study adjoining my bedchamber, quite the most secure place in my home.  This was not the first time I'd secured valuable items there."  
  
"Did you tell your family?" Sherlock asked.  
  
Howland nodded.  "Over the tea tray, when the servants were out of the room, although it's possible that the door was ajar and our maid heard.  Sarah Parr is her name - a good enough girl, but she has poor taste in beaux, the latest being the ne'er-do-well son of our grocer."  
  
"And the other members of the household?" John asked, knowing that Sherlock would want a complete list.  
  
"My manservant, although he has been on leave for the past two weeks - his mother is poorly.  As for the others, there is my nephew, and my daughter, Lucy.  My only child - a Beta."  He made a sound between a sigh and a sob.  "A great disappointment to me, and I am only glad that her mother didn't live to see this day."  
  
"In what way a disappointment?" Sherlock asked.    
  
"In every way.  I don't say that it's not my fault, for I indulged her sadly after her mother's death.  I had hoped that Lucy would come into the business with me but she was wild and, to tell truth, I could not trust her with the handling of large sums of money.  Not that she cares about earning an honest wage - full of modern notions she is.  She joined a club, if you can believe it!  A club for Alpha and Beta females!  What will they think of next - clubs for Omegas?"  
  
He snorted, not seeming to notice the tightening of Sherlock's mouth at this.  
  
"All Lucy cares for is wasting the quarterly allowance I make her, with gambling and wild living.  I cannot tell you how many times she applied to me for assistance with a debt of honour, until I finally had to put my foot down and refuse to advance anything beyond her quarterly allowance.    
  
"The other member of our little family is my nephew, George.  A good lad, he came to live with us upon the death of his parents - his mother was my sister, you see.  He's the sunshine of my life, quite the opposite of his cousin, and I quite rely on him to manage the household.  I would have taken him into the family business - and a fine job he'd have made of it, too, and an Alpha as well! - only he refused to step into Lucy's place.  I did think that it would be a good thing for my girl if George would become her husband, but the only thing he has ever crossed me in is by refusing to do so.  It would be the making of Lucy if George were to take her in hand but there!  It's too late now!"  
  
"Am I right in assuming that the matter that has cast you into despair is the theft of the coronet by your daughter?" Sherlock asked.  
  
Howland gave a heavy sigh.  "Not all of it, thank the Lord, although not for lack of trying."  
  
"Perhaps if you could tell us more of the circumstances - ?" John prompted, although a quick look at Sherlock told him that his quick mind was already running ahead to the solution of the matter.  
  
"Of course, of course."  Holder sighed again.  "Shortly after tea, we all went up to bed, but not before Lucy approached me for the loan of 200 pounds, to settle another gambling debt, to Lady Elizabeth Burnwell who is also a member of her club.  A deuced fine looking woman - I do beg your pardon, Lord Sherlock! - a Corinthian of the first stare, but a bad influence on my Lucy.   Influences her to all sorts of wild behaviour, and makes herself quite free of my house.  George don't like her, won't stay in the same room, sensing her to be a rake and a libertine, so I had to forbid Lady Bess the house for the sake of George's peace of mind.  I turned Lucy down, of course, and we went off to bed out of temper with each other.   I checked that my desk was securely locked and retired to my bedchamber.  
  
"I am not a heavy sleeper, and my anxiety made me even more so, and it was about two in the morning when I was disturbed by a sound downstairs, like a door or window closing, somewhere in the house.  Then I heard footsteps in the outer room.  I leapt up and burst into my study, and there I found Lucy with the coronet in her hands.  She was bending it, wrenching it with all her strength, and at my crying out she dropped it on the floor.  I snatched it up and examined it, and I found that one of the gold corners with three emeralds on it was missing.  I shook it under her nose, calling her a thief and, when she denied that, a liar.  Sarah, the maid, and George came running at the noise and I sent George off to fetch the constable."  
  
Sherlock frowned at this.  "You had your daughter arrested?"  
  
"I did.  Lucy refused to say another word on the matter, or to divulge what she had done with the missing piece of the coronet.  The constables searched her, her room, my dressing room, and the entire house, but there's been no sign of it.  Lucy will not talk, even when they locked her in a cell, and George was so overcome that he took to his bed in grief and misery.  And so would I have done, except that my solicitor advised me to lay the matter in your hands, for if you cannot find the missing emeralds, we are ruined!  And the disgrace to the bank as well - it don't bear thinking!"  
  
Here Howland paused, breathing heavily while John refilled his glass.  Sherlock sat silent for a few minutes, staring at the fire with his brows furrowed.  
  
"Do you have many visitors?" he asked.  
  
Holder shook his head.  "No, indeed.  Other than Lady Bess, who hasn't been in the house this month, and Sarah's young man, we have no regular visitors."  
  
"No other friends of your daughter?  Your nephew isn't courting anyone?"  
  
"No, indeed.  He has always been inclined to remain at home, disdaining company.  He's a quiet soul, and quite my comfort in the evenings while Lucy is gadding about."  
  
"And the coronet itself - was it injured other than the broken bit?"  
  
"Yes, it has been twisted and will need a jeweller's care to be put completely to rights."  
  
"I think that I will have to see it," Sherlock said abruptly, rising to his feet and striding out of the room as he called for Wiggins.  John, being well acquainted with Sherlock's sudden decisions, put his quill in the stand and blotted his page of notes quickly before pocketing the notebook.  Howland, however, was taken aback and struggled to his feet.  
  
"What, now?" he said, trying to settle his coat and cravat as he followed John to the door.  
  
"There is no time to be lost," Sherlock replied, thrusting his arms into the greatcoat that Wiggins held open for him,  John grabbed his own coat, shrugging it on as he went out to hail a cab  
  
Howland's home, situated in a southern suburb of London, was a good-sized house with orderly lawns and an equally immaculate interior.  Sherlock followed Howland up to his study where the banker unlocked his desk and pulled out the case containing the emerald coronet.  Sherlock looked at it for a long moment with his quizzing glass, studying it minutely before picking it up.  It was a magnificent item, the finest coronet that John had ever seen, even at the recent coronation.  At one side of the coronet was a crack, and it was clear that a corner with three emeralds had been broken off.  
  
"Is your daughter unusually strong?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"No more than most young Betas her age," Howland replied.    
  
To John's surprise, Sherlock grasped one of the opposite corners and tried to twist it, ignoring Howland's cry of dismay.  "I can't break off a corner without a great deal of effort, and I have exceptionally strong fingers.  And even if I did manage it, the noise would be like a gunshot.  Did you hear any such noise last night?"  
  
"No - that is - I scarcely know - "  
  
"So your daughter would have had to come into this room, unlock the desk and remove the coronet, take it elsewhere in the house to break off the corner, bring it back here to lock it back up.  Then, what? decided to take another corner?"  
  
John frowned a little.  "Maybe she decided she wanted more?"  
  
"Is that likely?"  
  
Howland's frown was even deeper.  "Are you saying that my girl didn't do this?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said, setting the coronet back into its case and then turning to the banker.  "That's what I'm saying.  Your daughter is innocent, and you owe her a great apology."  
  
"But - she had it in her hands!  She was twisting it!"  
  
"No doubt trying to restore its shape."  
  
"If Lucy didn't do it, then who was it?  And why does she refuse to speak?"  
  
Sherlock locked the desk and tossed the keys back to Holder.  "That's what we have to find out.  I think a look about the place is called for, don't you?"  
  
Sherlock spent the next hour going over the house, examining the doors and windows before heading into the yard.  There he spent a great deal of time examining the grounds, particularly under the front window and by the back gate.  Then he turned back to John and Howland.  
  
"Right.  I think I should interview the maid and your nephew next."  
  
George was pale and subdued, as quiet as his uncle had described him, unlike most Alphas that John had known - but then again, John had pointed out that he wasn't like most Alphas, either.  He stated that he hadn't heard anything until his uncle started shouting, which had brought him running from his room just across the hall.  He'd paused long enough to pull on his clothes before leaving his room, fearing that the house was on fire or beset by prowlers.  
  
"Lucy didn't do this," George insisted.  "She couldn't!"  Then, hesitantly, he said, "I saw Sarah last night as we were heading up to bed, speaking to someone just outside the front window.  And I know I saw her with her young man, shortly after midnight, by the back gate.  I spoke to her quite sharply about that this morning."  
  
Sarah, the maid, was the next to be interviewed.  She reluctantly admitted to meeting her sweetheart at the back gate at midnight but denied speaking to anyone at the window earlier that evening, and she claimed to have no knowledge of the coronet until the shouting started.    
  
After hearing their stories, Sherlock turned back to Howland.  "When you saw your daughter early this morning, holding the coronet, how was she dressed?"  
  
Howland frowned slightly.  "Why, in her nightdress and dressing gown."  
  
"Was she wearing shoes?"  
  
"Just thin house slippers."

"And your nephew?  Was he dressed and shod?"

"Of course - you just heard him say that he pulled on his clothes before leaving his room.  I wouldn't have sent him off to fetch the constable in his nightclothes!"  
  
A very satisfied look crossed Sherlock's face.  "Very well, Mr. Howland.  I believe that I have seen all that can be discerned here.  John, we will return home."  
  
"But the gems!" Howland protested.  "Where are they?"  
  
"I have no notion at present, but if you come to Baker Street tomorrow at noon, I feel certain that I will be able to lay them in your hands."  
  
With this Howland had to be satisfied.  A cab was called for, but instead of giving directions to Baker Street, Sherlock directed the cabbie to the local jail.  Once there, he requested permission to see Lucy Howland, and as the jailer recognized Sherlock's name, he was swiftly taken to Miss Howland's cell.

Lucy Howland was a rather average looking woman, in John's opinion, looking a little the worse for having spent several hours in a jail cell.  She met Sherlock's eyes forthrightly and said, in a blunt tone of voice, "I won't tell you any more than I told my father, nor the constables.  I didn't steal the coronet and that's all I'll say."

"I didn't expect you to do so," Sherlock replied coolly.  "Although in my opinion your actions are foolish and will gain you nothing."

Lucy's eyes flew to his, a startled look on her face, but then she compressed her lips together and looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.  "Be that as it may, you must allow me to do what I think is right."

"Certainly.  I have only one question for you, Miss Howland.  What is the name of your club?"

Again Lucy looked up at him, this time with a frown.  "The Adventuresses Club.  Why do you ask?"

"The novelty of such a place intrigues me," Sherlock replied. 

"Yes, well, we aren't allowed to join White's or Boodle's or any of the other clubs as we aren't Alpha males, so what else are we to do but form one of our own?" Lucy said, with more than a little bitterness in her voice.  "We can work in a handful of professions, so long as we know our place, teaching their children or bathing their fevered brows.  As a Beta, I'm not even allowed the vote, although I must bide under their laws."

John was moved by her bitterness to reach out, touching her shoulder to offer comfort.  "I assure you that many Alpha males feel as you, and that we are working to bring about change.  You must be patient - and help us to correct your own unwarranted arrest."

Lucy gave him a fleeting half-smile but refused to say anything more, and so they left the jail and hailed a cab to take them to Baker Street. 

As they rode, Sherlock glanced over at John and said, "You sympathized with Miss Howland's words."

John nodded.  "I've heard them enough.  One of the nurses who worked with me during my studies at St. Bart's wanted to go to the Peninsula during the war, to help nurse the wounded.  Sarah felt that having trained nurses in hospitals near the battlefield would vastly improve the quality of care for the injured, and I have to agree with her.  There simply aren't enough doctors, and the aids we had were soldiers conscripted to be dressers."

"It is a strange irony of fate that Lucy Howland should be born with more courage and ambition than her Alpha cousin, George," Sherlock commented.  "One feels that he would have been happier as a Beta or even an Omega."

They arrived at Baker Street and Sherlock immediately dove into a trunk in the lumber room, pulling out several articles of clothing that looked somewhat worse for wear.  He shed his outer clothing, donning the rough trousers and coat, then pulling on rough work-boots.  
  
"I think this should do," he said, studying himself in the looking glass.  "I wish you could come with me, John, but I'm afraid that two of us would attract attention.  I have a trail to follow, and it may be many hours before I return."  
  
John nodded.  "Very well, but you will take something with you to eat.  I insist."  
  
Sherlock scowled but accepted a slice of beef on a round of bread wrapped in a linen cloth from Mrs Hudson, stuffing it into his capacious pocket.  John hoped that it would be eaten, not discarded or given to one of his urchins, but he admitted to himself that the odds were not great.

* * *

While Sherlock was out investigating the household of Alexander Howland and the mystery of the missing piece of the Emerald Coronet, John did a bit of investigating on his own.    
  
It was the case of the Empty House.  
  
A casual inquiry to Betty, their maid, earlier that week had revealed that no one had been seen entering or leaving the house next door, nor had deliveries ever been made there.  More pointed questions to Mrs. Hudson elicited the news that the house, although purchased from her architect friend, had never been occupied.  She also produced a key, again from the architect, once Mrs Hudson has ascertained John's thoughts.  While Sherlock went out in disguise in search of clues, John collected Mrs. Hudson and her key and went in search of answers to question of expanding 221 Baker Street.  
  
As John had expected, the house next door was laid out similarly to their own house.  There were some differences, primary being the lack of an extension on the rear of the house.  Instead, the servants' entrance was on the front of the house, reached by stairs from the street and leading into a well appointed kitchen in the basement.  There was also a rather nice bedchamber for the cook, with its own fireplace.  A staircase led up to a dining room on the ground floor, following the new fashion, which made Mrs. Hudson huff.

"I don't know about that, having the dining room right on the ground," Mrs. Hudson said disapprovingly.  "Doesn't seem right, these modern notions."

John liked the way it allowed access to the back terrace, though, and thought that it would be nice to stroll outside after dinner on a fine night, to indulge in a pipe or two.  And the space on the first floor where their own dining room occupied was used instead for a nice library, which John imagined that Sherlock would like.  The house lacked the fancy bathing chamber that Mycroft had installed, and there was only an exterior privy, but there were an abundance of bed-chambers on the upper floors.  
  
"Double the space we have now," John said aloud as Mrs Hudson locked up and they returned home, enumerating the benefits of expansion  "We could hire another maid or a cook, to help you out. Rooms for guests and for the children as they get older.  Separate parlours for clients and for regular guests."  
  
"It would help to have another pair of hands," Mrs. Hudson admitted.  "I'm not getting any younger and I have a hip."  
  
"Of course, we might not be able to get the place," John said.  "We don't know who owns it - "  Then he stopped, closed his eyes, and sighed.  "Yes, I do.   Mycroft Holmes owes it, or I will eat my new trilby hat."  
  
"Mycroft Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson said, puzzled.  "Are you certain?  Why would he have done such a thing?  You don't suppose he intends to move in next door?"  
  
"I doubt it," John said.  "It's not nearly grand enough for his political ambitions."  
  
He wondered if Mycroft had intended to install one of his subordinates next door, to keep an eye on Sherlock, and why he hadn't carried out that plan.  Or had he foreseen that 221 Baker Street would become too small for their needs and that John would think about expanding?  Did he plan to assist, or to prevent that?   Probably the latter, as he'd always looked down his nose at their location.  Without the ability to expand next door - if they even could, which would require a consult with an architect - then they would have to move elsewhere before long.  
  
John tightened his mouth at that thought.  He had refused to allow Mycroft Holmes a say in their domestic situation, and he'd be damned if he'd let Mycroft interfere now.  Going to his desk, he penned a letter to his man of business, directing him to look into the ownership of the property and try to arrange a purchase.  He also cautioned him not to bring John's name into the matter, citing a concern that such knowledge would drive up the price.  Feeling satisfied, he gave the note to Billy to deliver and then retired to their bedchamber, to read by the fire and await Sherlock's return.

* * *

The tea tray had just been brought in when Sherlock appeared, looking tired but satisfied with his mission.  He allowed Wiggins to help him out of the rough coat and into his dressing gown, exchanging boots for slippers, then settled into his chair before the fire with a sigh of relief.  
  
"You may cut me a slice of that delicious fruit cake, John," he said, stretching his toes towards the fire, "and in return I'll give you this."  
  
He pulled the linen square that his meal had been wrapped in from his pocket, tossing it to his husband.  John unwrapped it to find a lovely golden triangle with three emerald gems set upon it, and he looked over at Sherlock in amazement.  
  
"You found it already!  Where?"  
  
"In the hands of one of the few receivers in London who could handle the disposal of them," Sherlock replied.  "As for the rest of the story, would you be upset with me if I made you wait until I can tell both you and Howland at the same time?"  
  
John grinned at him.  "And deprive you of the chance to preen and show off?  Of course not!  Just tell me one thing: were you right about the daughter?  Was she indeed innocent of the crime?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "Innocent of all but injured pride, and putting her faith in one who did not deserve it.  But I will say no more tonight!"  
  
The next day at noon Howland presented himself at their door, and if possible he looked worse than the day before.  "What fresh disaster has befallen you?" John asked, guiding him to a seat and pressing a glass into his hand.  
  
"One sorrow on the heels of another," Howland said gloomily.  "George, my nephew, has deserted me."  
  
"Deserted you?" John asked, surprised.  "Why, where has he gone?"  
  
"I don't know.  When I came down this morning, he was gone.  His bed was not slept in last night, and a note was left for me."    
  
He handed the note to John who scanned it quickly. The young man said nothing of substance, just begging forgiveness for bringing misfortune on the family and begging his uncle to forget about him.  He handed it to Sherlock who glanced at it, then tossed it onto the table.  
  
"It is no more than I expected," Sherlock said.  "He has gone off with his lover."  
  
Howland gaped at him.  "His lover?  But - he hasn't one!  George goes no where, sees no one."  
  
"On the contrary; he met his lover at your house.  It is Lady Bess - the same person that he gave the coronet to."  
  
If possible, Howland looked even more shocked.  "Lady Bess - but they are both Alphas!"  He drained the entirety of his glass.  "My God!  The scandal!"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.  "As they are no doubt on their way to the continent, I doubt that you have little to fear on that account.  You might give it out that your nephew has gone abroad for his health.  The pair are currently flush in the pocket, but a thousand pounds won't last forever."

Howland gaped at him.  "Are you saying that _George_ stole the coronet?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "Yes, although Lady Bess was the mind behind the crime.  George was in the habit of speaking to his lover at the window each night, when you had retired to bed.  He told her about the coronet and arranged to deliver it later that night, after the household was asleep.  It was George who unlocked the desk and removed the coronet, then he slipped outside and gave it to Lady Bess.  That was why he was fully dressed - including his boots - when he responded to your cries.   
  
"Lucy was unable to sleep, upset by her argument with you and worried about her debts.  She had changed for bed but she was pacing her room when she happened to glance out the window and saw George passing the coronet to Lady Bess.  Lucy immediately chased after her, catching her at the gate and wrestling over the coronet.  That was how it became twisted and the corner broke off, leaving Lucy with the larger share.  She didn't notice the missing piece, eager as she was to restore the coronet to its case and so shield her cousin."  
  
Howland's face was ashen.  "But why did Lucy not speak?  Why didn't she tell me the truth of the matter?"  
  
"Perhaps she wished you to trust her word when she said she didn't steal it," Sherlock pointed out.  "In addition, she was genuinely fond of her cousin, George, and was trying to shield him from your wrath.  Although he couldn't return her affection, she had no desire to see him come to harm if she could prevent it.  It seemed better to your daughter that you place blame on her.  You owe her an apology."  
  
"And the gems?" Howland asked, visibly trembling.  
  
Silently, Sherlock presented the broken piece with its gems to Howland.  He accepted them reverently, then looked over at Sherlock.  
  
"Lord Sherlock, I cannot thank you enough," he said humbly.  "What do I owe you?"  
  
Sherlock waived his hand dismissively.  "I didn't do this for a fee.  There is the slight cost of a thousand pounds for the purchase of the item from a receiver - "  
  
"Which I will gladly reimburse you for, were it ten times as much," Howland said, not taking his eyes off of the gems.  
  
"But the person who is owed is your daughter, who was willing to give up her good name to shield your favourite," Sherlock pointed out sternly.    
  
Howland admitted as much and, after stowing the gems away carefully, left to make amends with the child left to him.  Having seen their client out, John went upstairs to their private sitting room where Sherlock had already taken up residence on the sofa.  He finished jotting down some more notes, already working out how he could present the case while protecting Howland and his daughter, innocent of all but loving too deeply.  He glanced over at where Sherlock lay unmoving on the sofa, wondering if he was already brooding about being bored.  
  
"No," Sherlock said, as if John had spoken aloud.  "I was wondering if I will treat our son in such a manner."  
  
John gave him an amused look.  "You are being a bit previous, as we don't know whether our child will be a boy or girl.  And I can't imagine you not knowing immediately the guilt or innocence of our offspring on anything - probably before they've committed the misdeed."  
  
A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, as it always did when John expressed his admiration of Sherlock's abilities but he shook his head.  "Mr. Howland assumed that his daughter was guilty, without waiting for an explanation.  In fact, he believed it even when young Lucy protested her innocence.  Should not a parent believe in their child?"  
  
John sighed.  "Things happen between parents and children over the years.  Failed expectations on both sides, disagreements, misunderstandings.  I doubt that any family is perfect, but we can only do our best when raising our child."

"All my reliance is on you then, John," Sherlock informed him.  "As I am sure you've been told many times, my morals are questionable and my manners abominable."  
  
"You will allow me to disagree on both," John countered.  "I think that you are incredible, and that our children will be proud to claim you as their parent."  
  
"And that is why you are the most estimable of husbands," Sherlock said, rising from the sofa.  He passed by John's chair and dropped a kiss on his head before proceeding upstairs to their room. 

John sat staring at his notes with unseeing eyes for several minutes, cherishing the ghostly feel of that kiss.  Then he closed his journal and followed his husband to bed.


	40. Part III: Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmastide in Baker Street - and two separate cases for Sherlock, while Georgia makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing note: Sometimes, no matter how much you've plotted out a story, the characters will take over in ways that you don't expect. That happened with this chapter, which is why it is so late coming out, as I had to go back and make some minor edits throughout the preceding chapters. These changes aren't to the main characters or the plot, so you don't have to go back to reread the story; it concerns Molly's subplot and in summary she is two years younger, her father was a gentleman, and she's still a Beta but not like Mary. Some of the ages of the other minor characters have been changed, primarily Georgia who is now two years older at nearly eighteen.
> 
> The cases and part of the dialogue comes from the ACD canon, although some of it has been altered or paraphrased.

**Christmas preparations**

 On the last Sunday of November, Georgia bullied the entire household into the kitchen at the back of the house.  
  
Having spent all of her life in the country, the young Alpha had an unsophisticated and wholehearted love for the rustic practices of the holiday season.  Not for her the fashionable balls and sedate card-parties of a Londoner to start the Christmas season. The fashionable parade of gowns to church on Christmas and the presentation of the Boar's Head at Christmas dinner were of little consequence to her enjoyment of the day.

For Georgia, it was all about the Christmas pudding.  
  
John shrugged and went along with his niece, even feeling a bit of excitement as the scent of nutmeg and ginger in the air stirred childhood memories.  It had been many, many years since he'd sat on the stool in the kitchen at Saughton, eagerly awaiting his chance to stir the pudding while silently rehearsing his wish.  Now, perched on a chair in Mrs. Hudson's homey kitchen, he found himself anticipating that moment again and leaned over the table to scoop a bit of the mixture out of the bowl as Mrs Hudson laughingly swatted him away.  
  
Sherlock and Wiggins hung back, both clearly puzzled by Georgia's demand that they be present while Mrs. Hudson cooked.  Billy was much more enthusiastic, sneaking precious raisins when he could, watching as Mrs Hudson added the thirteen ingredients together.  As the youngest, he was given the first "stir", and he closed his eyes tight as he whispered his wish which they politely pretended not to hear, although John stored the information away for a present for the boy.  Georgia was next, enthusiastically stirring the batter clockwise and humming to herself, her eyes squeezed shut as she made her wish.   
  
As Wiggins reluctantly took the bowl for his turn and listened to Georgia's instructions, Sherlock stepped closer to John.  He leaned close to murmur in John's ear, "I don't quite understand the purpose of this."  
  
John shrugged.  "It's for luck and, well, it's fun."  
  
"And we're expected to eat that?" Sherlock asked, disbelief in his voice as he looked dubiously into the bowl that was held out to him.  
  
"In a month's time, yeah," John replied.  "Haven't you ever had a Christmas pudding?"  
  
"Why would I have?"

"Because it's traditional."  John gestured toward the bowl.  "Go on; stir it."

Sherlock sighed and grasped the wooden spoon in the bowl.  He dutifully shut his eyes and stirred, scowling when Georgia reminded him about making a wish, and then it was John's turn.  He enthusiastically stirred the mixture in the bowl, his eyes closed as required, and made his wish.  
  
"What did you wish for?" Sherlock asked, curious, as John handed the spoon off to Mrs Hudson.  
  
"That would be telling - which you're not supposed to do," John replied.  "I didn't ask about _your_ wish."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Superstition and nonsense.  You don't seriously think that stirring a mess of fruit and flour with your eyes shut is going to grant some sort of magical wish, do you?"  
  
Billy looked a bit crestfallen and Georgia glared but John just grinned at him.  "Might happen.  You never know."  
  
And deep inside, he hoped that his wish for a safe and healthy delivery would be granted. 

* * *

 

Preparing for Christmastide in London reminded John of his obligations back home, as well as the tasks necessary for their residence at Saughton for at least six months.  He wrote to Wimmering with instructions for the distribution of gifts and clothing to the servants, and for the tenants' feast on Christmas.  He also let Wimmering know that they would leave London on January 7th and their tentative arrival date.  And then he wrote to his uncle in Edinburgh, with a request that he hunt up toys to be given to the children of the estate at the Christmas feast.  
  
After that, he spent several days going over the year's London accounts with Pickering and was pleased with the change that a year had made.  The infusion of Sherlock's money had saved them, but it appeared that John's careful management had kept the costs of maintaining a London property within acceptable boundaries.   Pickering foresaw no trouble with an expansion of the London household in the next year, nor with the renovations that would need to be made.  
  
That is, if they could ever track down the current owner of the property.  
  
Pickering had learned that the original purchaser was an elderly man who had died, unexpectedly but of natural causes, the previous March.  His heir had decided to move into the house but, also unexpectedly, changed his mind and sold the place in July, refusing to say any more.  However, there had been some irregularity in the paperwork concerning the sale and the house had been confiscated by one of the government departments, although no one seemed to know which one.   John could see Mycroft's hand in this latter acquisition, but he didn't know what to make of the previous sale which, to his mind, sounded as if the heir had been coerced into selling the house.  If Mycroft or one of his minions had exerted that pressure, there would have been no need for the confiscation, but who else would want the property that badly?  Pickering had spent a frustrating week trying to track down the ownership before finally giving up, but John was determined to corner Mycroft the next time they met and get some answers.

 

* * *

 

 

**The Case of the Crooked Man**

 John returned home after a final meeting with Pickering to find that 221 Baker Street was a-flurry with activity.  While John was out, it appeared that a case had been presented to Sherlock because he was pacing their sitting room.

"Ah, John!  Did you write down what I told you?"  
  
John paused in the act of exchanging his outdoor boots for house slippers and gave his husband a look that combined both irritation and amusement.  "You do realize that I wasn't home until just now, don't you?  That I was across town?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "Whatever for?  Never mind - it's not important."  
  
"It's quite all right, Uncle Sherlock," Georgia said from where she sat at John's desk.  "I wrote it down for Uncle John."  
  
"So what's the case?" John asked, taking up his pipe to clean and fill it.  "One of Lestrade's?"  
  
"No, it belongs to Bradstreet - of the Bow Street Runners.  It appears that Colonel James Barclay, lately retired from active service, has been murdered in his home.  The only witness - and suspect - is his widow, however she was found prostrate on the sofa just a few feet away from her late husband, insensible and feverish, and she has not recovered her wits."  
  
"And the cause of death?" John asked, taking the notebook to read the notes.    
  
"A blow to the back of the head, according to Bradstreet.  The murder weapon was a peculiarly shaped club found near the body."  
  
"Enemies?"  
  
"None, according to the man's secretary - or rather, none out of the ordinary.  He came up through the ranks, receiving commendations for his heroic actions in securing the relief of his regiment at Sathyamangalam during the Third Anglo-Mysore War.  He married the Beta daughter of the colour-sergeant of the regiment - a love match, by all accounts, although his devotion was more marked than hers.  He had an even temper but could be vindictive when wronged."    
  
"And they suspect the wife because - ?"  
  
"The two were heard arguing after she returned to the house yesterday evening.  She called him a coward and said the name 'David' repeatedly.  Then she screamed, and when the servants went to her aid, they found the door locked.  The secretary ran around to the garden door and found it open, his employer dead, and his wife in a dead faint.  The servants believe it must have been an intruder, but Bradstreet insists that it's the widow because the blow was to the back and no Alpha would turn his back on an intruder.  The body has been moved to St. Barts - we will visit the scene of the crime and then take a look at the victim.  Come, John!" he said imperiously, striding towards the door.  
  
John groaned.  "Have a heart, Sherlock!  I've just returned home and I'm perishing for my tea."  He cast an appraising look over Sherlock.  "And I'll warrant that you haven't had a bite since breakfast - if you ate anything then."  
  
Sherlock scowled but John had proved himself firm on the matter since their return to London.  "Oh, very well!"  He strode to the staircase and shouted down, "Mrs Hudson!  Tea!" before returning and flinging himself into his chair - as much as a seven-month-pregnant Omega could.  
  
John ignored the incipient sulk, turning his attention instead to the notes that Georgia had made.  She filled him in on the details of the case, not seeming to be bothered by her uncle-in-law's moods.  John wondered just what Mycroft had been telling the impressionable young Alpha about Sherlock, and whether he should nip that friendship in the bud.  Although, he reflected, it was probably too late - and no doubt futile as Mycroft and Georgia would do what they wanted.    
  
After consuming a light luncheon with tea, Sherlock swept both John and Georgia off to Colonel Barclay's home where the Runner at the door obligingly stood aside to let them enter.  Sherlock examined the morning room where the crime had occurred and John took a few minutes to look around as well.  For some reason, Sherlock concentrated on the door that led to the garden and the curtains next to it, but John was much more interested in the blood that was pooled on the hearth.  He had no doubt that Sherlock had seen exactly what he had.  
  
Sherlock turned away from the curtains and questioned the maid, particularly about whether the key to the room had been located.  It hadn't, and Sherlock smiled at that.  
  
"There is nothing more to be learned here!" Sherlock declared, leading the way back outside to catch a cab to St. Barts. 

 

* * *

 

John was relieved to see that Molly was the one on duty in the dissecting-room, having experienced the hell of keeping Sherlock and one of the other pathologists from killing each other the last time. He greeted her warmly as Sherlock swept by them, his eyes on the corpse lying on the table.  Seeing that Molly was regarding Georgia with curiosity, he hastened to introduce them. 

"Molly, I'd like you to meet my niece, Georgia Watson-Dalrymple, Viscount Ratho.  Georgie, this is Molly Hooper, the most patient pathologist in England."  
  
Molly gave Georgia a tentative smile but the young Alpha was not the least bit shy herself and impulsively reached out to shake Molly's hand.  "I've heard so much about you from Uncle Sherlock," she said, not seeming to notice Molly's incredulous look over at the detective.  "And from Uncle John's stories, of course.  I would love to see your anatomical drawings, if you wouldn't mind showing them to me."  
  
That was absolutely the right thing to say and John silently blessed Georgia as Molly led her to the other side of the room where her worktable was set up.  He turned to Sherlock and saw that he was crouched over the body, examining the head wound through his magnifying glass.  After a moment, he made a triumphant sound and straightened up, turning to John.  
  
"Look at this, John!" he said, gesturing to the corpse.  "What do you make of it?"  
  
John looked over the wound to the back of the head and frowned.  "Odd.  Help me turn him over."  Between them, they moved the dead man onto his back and John's frown deepened.  "If he had been hit on the back of the head by an object - a club, for example - he would have struck his forehead on the hearth when he fell, but there is no sign of injury to his face.  I suppose it's possible that he could have caught himself by grabbing the mantle, then collapsed onto the hearth, but unlikely in light of the blood pool on the hearth."  
  
Sherlock gave him an approving look.  "You have grasped the key fact of the matter, John!  The injury was more likely to have been caused by his fall, with him striking his head on the hearth.  So he was either pushed, by someone larger than his wife, or he was already dead before he fell. "  
  
"And look at the terror on his face.  I would say that he saw something that frightened him so much that his heart gave out.  Perhaps this 'David' that Mrs. Barclay referred to?"  
  
Sherlock nodded, a frustrated look on his face.  "The only way to know for certain is to interview Mrs. Barclay, and she is still insensible.  Unless - "  He swung around to where Georgia was looking through Molly's sketches.  "Georgia, where did Inspector Bradstreet say that Mrs. Barclay was during the afternoon?"  
  
Georgia looked up, not seeming upset by the abrupt interruption.  "At the battalion's Retired Soldiers' Home, sorting out winter coats.  With Miss Morrison."  
  
"She must know something more than she told Bradstreet."  Sherlock snatched up his hat and walking stick, turning toward the door. "Come, John!  We will no doubt find her there this afternoon."  
  
John picked up his own hat and gave Georgia an inquiring look. She shook her head saying, "I'd like to finish looking at Miss Hooper's drawings, unless you need me? If I am not bothering you, Miss Hooper?"

Molly flushed quite charmingly as she shook her head and she cast John a nervous look.  He had a feeling that his sister-in-law would not be pleased to see a friendship between them develop but John could see no harm, and so he smiled and said to Georgia, "We'll manage on our own.  We will see you back at Baker Street tonight."  
Then he hurried after Sherlock before he was left behind.

 

* * *

 

Miss Morrison was at the Home, and while she had little information, she shared with them that Mrs. Barclay had spoken with an odd little man who'd come into the building to entertain the men with his conjuring tricks.  She had seemed stricken after speaking with him and had left soon afterwards.

Sherlock had clearly caught the scent for he immediately led them to a pub in the area that catered to military men.  There, among the men playing dice and the lightskirts hanging over their shoulders, they caught sight of an odd-looking man.  He was about half the size of a normal man, but this appeared to be due to the hunched and crooked nature of his back and not his natural size.  His skin was darkened by a hotter sun than England had ever seen, his clothes similar to what John had seen among the Muslims in India, with an overcoat thrown over his shoulders against the winter cold.  But what was most unusual was his companion, an odd little creature called a mongoose.  John had seen them before in India but never in England, and from what they observed, the little creature helped the man earn a few coins from his audience.

At the end of the performance, they cornered the odd little man and, once Sherlock revealed the danger that Mrs. Barclay stood in, he was willing to talk.  He was - or had been - Henry Wood, formerly a Corporal stationed at Sathyamangalam under Captain John Floyd.  When Sultan Tipu had besieged the fort in 1790, the garrison had to be abandoned and they had headed for Coumbatore under cover of night.  Two men had been chosen to go for reinforcements from General Medows - Wood and Barclay - taking two separate routes devised by Sergeant Barclay.  Wood had been captured, and while he was tortured for information, he realized that Barclay had deliberately sent him into harm's way.  He had been taken to Seringapatam where he remained a prisoner for three years, subjected to cruel treatment and scant food or medical care. 

On his release, he'd been too ill to travel to England and too ashamed of his deformed body to seek assistance.  He had gone to India instead, earning money from the conjuring tricks he'd learned during his captivity.  It was there that he'd acquired his companion, whom he'd named Teddy, and they'd made a decent enough life over the past twenty years.  But lately he'd been possessed by a longing to see England before he died, and so he'd made his way home, where by chance he had come face to face with Nancy Barclay.

"Nancy Devoy, she was when I knew her," the man said with a misty look to his eyes.  "She was the belle of the regiment and the finest girl who ever breathed.  Her father was set on her marrying Barclay, but she only had eyes for me.  You will laugh to hear it, but there was a time when Corporal Henry Wood was the smartest looking man in the company.  We pledged our love and would have married when we returned to Headquarters, if it hadn't been for Barclay.

"We talked yesterday and she left in such a state that I was worried for her, so I followed her to her home, hiding in the gardens where I could watch her till I was certain that she had recovered.  But then _he_ came into the room where she'd taken refuge and they began arguing.  She threw his perfidy into his face, railing at how he'd ruined our lives.  When he raised his arm to strike her, I could bear it no longer and burst into the room.  I have never seen such a look on a man's face before, as if he'd seen his nightmares come to life, and over he went, striking his head on the hearth as he fell.  I knew in a moment that he was dead but Nancy fainted away on the sofa.  I could hear them banging on the door and, as I could do nothing for Nancy, I grabbed Teddy who'd escaped from his cage and ran away as fast as I could.  And that is the whole truth of the matter."

"And you would be willing to testify to these events?" Sherlock asked.  "Should Mrs. Barclay be accused?"

Wood indicated his willingness and, after John had written down his statement, Wood signed it.  They left Wood in peace after that, although John surreptitiously slipped a few coins into the little can that Wood carried, enough to see the man through a cold winter.

"One thing that I don't understand," John said as they caught a taxi to take them back to Baker Street.  "Why did Mrs. Barclay cry out the name 'David'?  Wood's first name is Henry, and her husband's name was James."

"You are forgetting your catechism, John," Sherlock said, with amused reproof.  "Don't you remember the story of David and Bathsheba?  How he sent her husband, Uriah, into battle so that he might marry the widowed Bathsheba?"

And that, John thought as he compiled the details of the case into his notebook, was perhaps the most unusual ending to a case so far. 

 

* * *

 

**Christmas Eve**

John had arranged for greenery to be delivered on the morning of December 24th, and Georgia had squealed with delight at the sight, sounding  much younger than her seventeen years.  She took charge of the decorating, delegating the construction of the kissing branch to John while she supervised the dispersal of the greenery.  Billy was her devoted assistant, fetching ribbon and string for her, and holding up ends of the garlands she fashioned from evergreen, holly, ivy, and hawthorn.  Wiggins had a city-dweller's disdain for the fancies of country-folk, but Sherlock observed everything with wide-eyed fascination.  John conscripted Sherlock and his deft fingers for the fashioning of the wire circles for the centre of the branch while he wove paper flowers and greenery together to form the arms of it.  When the bough was finished, he fastened the mistletoe to the bottom and hung it above the doorway to their sitting room, then stood back to admire the effect.  
  
Mrs. Hudson was bustling about, getting the wassail ready for the evening and laying out the table with savoury tidbits for them to eat.  She paused as she entered the sitting room, looking around at the decorations with a delighted look.  
  
"Makes me think of the time the ballet company toured Austria!" she said.  "So festive!"  
  
John took advantage of her distraction and position under the kissing-bough to come up beside her and give her a quick kiss on the cheek, much to the amusement of Georgia and the servants, but Mrs. Hudson just blushed and hastily moved away from the doorway saying, "Cheeky lad!"  
  
John laughed but was surprised in his turn when Sherlock came up behind him and kissed him soundly.  He blushed but gallantly returned the salute, then plucked three of the berries from the mistletoe to throw into the fire where the Yule log was already burning merrily.  
  
The decorating being finished, clean-up was left to the servants while John, Sherlock, and Georgia admired the results of their handiwork over a cup of punch.  Night was falling and the cheerful light from the fire gave the room a warm glow.  An equally cheerful sound reached them from the streets below, and Georgia ran to the windows to peer outside.  
  
"Carollers!" she cried out with delight and ran for the stairs, grabbing her coat from the peg.  
  
"Pennies are on the table in the hall!" John called out to her.  "And light the Christmas candle in the parlour window!"  There was an indistinct reply to this and John grinned, then turned to Sherlock.  "Do you want to go down to listen to them?  There might be mummers performing over near the park."  
  
Sherlock made a face.  "Listen to amateurs caterwauling for punch and pennies?  No!"  Then he gave John an uncertain look.  "Unless - "  
  
"Good," said John, settling down into his chair.  "If we're to have music, I'd much rather listen to you play."  
  
Sherlock looked pleased at that and, picking up his violin, began to play festive songs, one after the other.  John leaned back and closed his eyes, listening and breathing in the combined scents of the Season and home.  This Christmastime was looking to be a vast improvement on the last.

* * *

 

  **Christmas Day**

The household rose early the next morning.  John, Sherlock, and Georgia broke their fast on the cold pasties that Mrs Hudson had set out before leaving for her sister's house.  Jane and the little scullery maid had already left to spend their day's leave with their families, while Wiggins and Billy were joining a number of the Irregulars for a Christmas dinner at an inn.  John suspected it was financed by his husband - not that he had any fault to find with that, and he had enjoyed preparing the boxes to be distributed among the lads on the following day.  
  
Following church services at the local church, the three of them joined Mycroft and Lestrade at the elder Holmes's house in Russell Square.  The house was alight with candles and fragrant with the scent of good food, although John noticed that there was no greenery to be seen.  They sat down to a dinner of roast boar's head and venison, vegetables and savouries, and fine wine, accompanied by good conversation and excellent company.  John was relieved to find that he was seated by Lestrade instead of Mycroft as he still felt resentment towards the man.  If Mycroft noticed, he didn't betray it by so much as a lift of his eyebrows, and he directed his conversation to Georgia and Sherlock instead.  
  
When the last course was removed and plates of mince pies and gingerbread were set out, the staff assembled for the Christmas toast, which Mycroft gave with thanks for the previous year's good fortune and best wishes for the next year.  Lestrade passed out presents to the servants, wishing them a Happy Christmas as each went to finish their chores before starting their leave as both men would be spending the next week with Lestrade's family.    
  
Once the staff had been dismissed, Lestrade led the way to the music room where Georgia settled at the piano to play holiday carols while Sherlock took out his violin to accompany her.

"John, a word, if you please," Mycroft said quietly to John as he made to follow his husband.  Reluctantly, John followed him into his study where his brother-in-law poured them both a glass of brandy.  "I owe you an apology.  It is clear that Sherlock is doing much better since his return to London.  I have also spoken to your Dr. Agar and I was impressed by his views on childbirth.  Perhaps, in light of what happened to Princess Caroline, newer methods are needed."  
  
John took a sip of his brandy, mostly to keep back the angry words that Mycroft had felt it necessary to question their doctor.  At least the man had apologized, so that was something.  
  
Perhaps sensing that this was not a safe topic of conversation, Mycroft said, "I understand that you have been looking into the ownership of the house next to yours.  To that end, I believe that this will help."    
  
John took the envelope that Mycroft held out to him, opening it to find the deed to the house next door.  "Then you did purchase it," he said, trying to control his temper.  
  
"Yes - last month."    
  
John looked at him in surprise.  "But - "  
  
Mycroft sighed.  "While I understand why you distrust me and doubt my motives, I can assure you that I have not been conspiring against you in this matter. I've had my man of business keeping an eye on the record of any properties in that block, as a precautionary matter, and when it came up for sale, I acquired it with an eye to offering it to you and Sherlock, if it were at all suitable."  
  
"I - " John looked down at the envelope, then back at Mycroft.  "We will accept it, with pleasure.  It is _very_ suitable, and I believe it will make an excellent addition to our own house."  He extended his hand.  "Thank you."  
  
Mycroft shook his hand.  "Happy Christmas, John."  
  
"Happy Christmas, Mycroft."  He then smiled and added, "I don't suppose that you know of a good architect, do you?"  
  
Mycroft gave him a startled look and then smiled back.  "As a matter of fact..."

 

* * *

 

**Boxing Day**

The following day was a-bustle with activity from morning through afternoon, as tradesmen and Irregulars came knocking on the back door so as to receive their Christmas boxes.  Sherlock had chosen the contents of those for his Irregulars with care, making sure that each box contained a warm set of clothing and a shilling, while Mrs. Hudson included mince pies and other treats, and John contributed warm mittens and a new penknife.   
  
The house staff had presents as well: two sets of livery for the year as well as a monetary token of appreciation.  Mrs Hudson received a fine new coat from Sherlock as hers was sadly worn while John gave her a new bonnet and invited her to join them at the Christmas pantomime followed by supper out.  She was moved to tears by both gifts, and for a while John feared that their evening meal might be a victim to her emotions.  However, Mrs. Hudson pulled herself together and gave them an excellent roast turkey dinner, followed by the triumphant presentation of the flaming Christmas pudding.  Georgia applauded its appearance and John insisted that Mrs. Hudson join them for the consumption of the dish, while Sherlock pronounced the pudding a surprising triumph.  
  
As they were finishing their pudding, John rose from the table and removed an item from his desk, setting it in front of Sherlock before returning to his chair.  "I know it's traditional to give family presents on Epiphany, but I thought that you would appreciate it more now," he said, in response to Sherlock's surprised look.  
  
Georgia came to lean over the back of Sherlock's chair, looking down at the square box, wrapped in gold paper.  "Aren't you going to guess what it is, Uncle Sherlock?"  
  
"Unnecessary," Sherlock said as he began carefully unwrapping the flat, square box.  "Your uncle has been staring at my violin when he thinks I'm not aware, so it is undoubtedly new strings and sheet music - "  He paused as he removed the lid, revealing a brightly coloured playbill and a small ivory card.  
  
"What is it?" Georgia asked as silence dragged on for a few minutes.  
  
Sherlock lifted out the card.  "This indicates that the Watsons have rented a box at the Royal Opera House for the year.  And this is a playbill for their next production, 'La Gazza Landra', being performed until shortly after the new year."  
  
"I thought about simply buying tickets," John said, "but your cases are unpredictable so I decided that renting a box allowed more flexibility.  And I know Drury Lane is more fashionable because they perform in English, but I thought you'd prefer hearing the operas in their original language.  The Royal Opera is under new management at the King's Theatre, doing quite well, I hear." Sherlock was silent and John began to worry that he'd chosen wrong.  "Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock was staring at the playbill still and he said, with an odd tone to his voice, "This opera premièred in London a year ago, in the spring.  I had wished to attend but Mycroft abhors musical entertainment and an unmarried Omega may not go to the theatre alone."  
  
He rose abruptly from the table and went to John, pulling him up from his chair to embrace him, hiding his face against John's neck.  "Thank you, John.  You - I have no idea how you guessed my desire for this, or how you managed to hide your purchase.  I've never received a present that meant more to me."  
  
"You're welcome," John said softly, aware that the others were slipping out of the room to give them privacy.  "I don't know much about opera but I'm willing to attend with you and to learn."

He thought that he could almost feel Sherlock's slow smile at that.  "Confess - you are looking forward to the ballet with the thinly clad dancers, and not the singing."  
  
John chuckled.  "Perhaps, but I am out of luck with this production as I understand there is no ballet.  On the other hand, there are only two acts, so it should be mercifully short.  And you know that you are welcome to invite whomever you wish to join us - the box seats four, and I'm told that it is excellently situated for viewing the stage although, sadly, it has a less than ideal view of the Royal box."  
  
Sherlock snorted and lifted his head from John's shoulder.  His eyes were suspiciously bright but the look that he gave John was amused.  "I suppose that I will have to make due with that."  He pressed a kiss against John's lips.  "Thank you, John.  Truly." 

 

* * *

 

On Friday night they took Mrs. Hudson and Georgia to see "Harlequin and Friar Bacon" at Covent Garden, with J.S. Grimaldi in the title role that his father had made famous.  Wiggins had been invited as well, but as he indicated a preference to having his liver removed with a dull knife rather than attend the theatre, he elected for an evening off to visit Astley's Amphitheatre and view the Spectacular instead.  
  
Mrs Hudson enjoyed the comedic antics of the company, exclaiming afterwards that it took her back to her days on the stage.  Not that she'd ever appeared in anything so low-brow as pantomime, not as a leading dancer with the National Ballet, but theatre folk did tend to frequent the same places for food and lodgings.  And over supper she was more than willing to share some of the scandalous stories from her youth, although John had a feeling that some of them were modified for Georgia's ears.   In fact, Mrs. Hudson enjoyed the evening so much that, as they returned to Baker Street, John invited her to attend the opera with them on New Year's Eve.  
  
"Oh, no, dear!" Mrs. Hudson said firmly.  "I heard enough of that when I was young, and I have no desire to attend an opera for _fun_."  
  
"Which leaves us one short for that night," John said over a nightcap with Georgia and Sherlock.  "I don't know anyone still in town - Major Sholto, perhaps, although he rarely leaves his estate."  
  
"I'll take care of it, Uncle John," Georgia said.  "If I might invite anyone I'd like."  
  
"Mycroft hates opera," Sherlock warned her.  
  
Georgia flashed him an amused look.  "I know.  That's not who I have in mind."  
  
She had such a mischievous look on her face that John became worried.  "Georgia..."  
  
She laughed at him and shook her head.  "Don't worry, Uncle John.  I promise not to embarrass you."

* * *

 

**A Night at the Opera**

Georgia remained mum on the subject until the night of the opera, even as John quizzed her while helping her arrange her cravat.  She rolled her eyes and smiled slyly, but not a word would she say.  And so it was a complete surprise when the maid announced Miss Molly Hooper's arrival.  
  
Molly surrendered her pelisse to the maid, revealing a lovely blue silk gown banded with gold in the Russian style.  Her hair, which John was accustomed to seeing in a thickly braided club down her back, was swept up in a fetching coif with a flower pinned at her temple.  
  
"Miss Hooper!" John said, stepping forward to take her gloved hand and draw her into the room.  "You look very nice tonight."  
  
"Nice?" Georgia said, crossing the room with two glasses of wine in her hands.  "She looks beautiful!  Miss Hooper," she said, giving Molly one of the glasses.  "To your good health."  
  
"Which might not last long if you insist in going about with such a bare chest," Sherlock said, frowning at Molly as he came into the parlour.  "Impractical, although it does make the most of your small -  ow!"  Sherlock turned to glare at John as he trod on his husband's foot.  "What?"  
  
"A bit not good," John said quietly.  "This evening means a great deal to Georgia.  Don't ruin it for them."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "It was not my intention - "  He paused and then turned back to Molly, his eyes flicking over her from head to toe, then over at Georgia's face. 

"Apologies," he said.  "Despite my concern for your health, the gown is indeed becoming."  He stepped forward and kissed her cheek.  "Happy Christmas and a Joyous New Year, Molly Hooper."  
  
Molly's cheeks flushed.  "Thank - thank you, Lord Sherlock.  Oh!  And the same to you!"  She turned a nervous smile to John.  "And to you, Lord Saughton."  
  
Fearing that the whole evening was about to take a disastrous slide into awkward, John decided that action was required.  "Shall we go?" he said and then, from the surprised look that the rest of the party gave him, realized that it was a little too early to arrive at the King's Theatre.  Thinking quickly, he added, "I thought that we might take a stroll along the Royal Opera Arcade and look in at the shops before the performance."  
  
"Oh, how delightful!" Molly said, her face lighting up.  "I've never been there!"  She turned to Georgia eagerly.  "Have you?"  
  
Georgia smiled at Molly, shaking her head.  "No, I haven't.  We shall discover the wonders there together."  She took Molly's pelisse from the maid and placed it around Molly's shoulders, then held out her arm to escort Molly downstairs.  
  
Sherlock watched them go, then turned to John, a puzzled look on his face.  "John, your niece is courting Molly Hooper."  
  
John nodded, smothering a grin, and held open Sherlock's great coat for him.  "So it would seem."

"You don't mind?  There is nearly six years' difference in their ages."

"As there is between us," John reminded him.  "Georgie has always been mature for her years and she is an Alpha."

"And Molly is absurdly youthful and insecure; I suppose she could use Georgia's confidence."  Sherlock slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and smoothed it over his abdomen.  "Your sister will not be happy about this, should they form a lasting attachment."  
  
"No, she probably won't," John agreed.  "And Clara will be livid.  Not to mention Mycroft - I imagine he is already planning a dynastic marriage for Georgie."  
  
A look of unholy glee lit up Sherlock's face and he hurried after the younger couple.  John grabbed his own coat and followed, although he wasn't worried that Sherlock would say anything to ruin the evening for Molly now.  He had a feeling that putting a spoke in so many wheels would put Sherlock in an excellent mood.  
  
And it did.  It was as if a magical spell had been cast over the evening.  They strolled along the Royal Opera Arcade, running parallel to Haymarket and offering a glittering array of goods.  Molly and Georgia exclaimed over the displays in the shop windows and Georgia purchased a pair of opera glasses which she bestowed on Molly with such gallantry that she accepted with a blush of pleasure.  John purchased a small box of exquisite chocolates to be shared around at the interval, while Sherlock slipped a mysterious looking box into his coat pocket, clearly intended as an Epiphany present for one of them.  
  
When they had finished strolling the arcade it was time to enter the theatre itself, making their way to the box that John had procured.  It was as he had described - excellent for viewing the stage although the younger members of the party were a little disappointed that they couldn't stare into the Royal Box.  They were consoled by the information, obtained from one of the attendants, that it was empty that night, and spent the time before the curtain rose surveying the rest of the audience through the opera glasses.  John had the happy thought to order refreshments now to be served at the interval, and he slipped back into his seat shortly before the overture began.    
  
John enjoyed the opera, despite his worst fears.  The overture was brilliant with a decidedly martial air and the rest of the music not too complicated.  The storyline was clear to understand, even though it was sung in Italian.  There were two men returning from war, one in triumph and one in secrecy and shame.  There was the poor young servant girl, wrongly accused of theft and sentenced to death, breaking the hearts of her father and her lover.  Of course, the true thief - the magpie - was discovered at the eleventh hour and the girl was saved from death.  Which John thought was a brilliant improvement over the last opera he'd seen: five acts long, and the final one littered with bodies.  All in all, it was an enjoyable three hours and he wasn't bored for a moment. 

For that he had to credit the rest of his party, for when the story lagged or the singing became too much, he found himself watching their faces.  Sherlock was wrapped in silent but sincere appreciation from the sound of the first note to the fall of the last curtain, rousing only briefly at the interval to partake of a mouthful of the cakes and wine.  Molly was likewise enchanted, but more at the setting in which she found herself, her eyes darting between the delights of the stage and the glittering dresses and jewels of the members of the audience.  And Georgia, like John, seemed more interested in her companions than in the performance, her eyes lingering on Molly's face throughout most of the evening.  Once, she caught John watching her and flushed, but as he only smiled back at her she turned her attention back to the young Beta woman.

Once the final ovation was over and the curtain fell for the last time, John escorted his party to Simpson's where he'd ordered a light supper for them.  As the town was thin of company, the place was only half-full despite it being New Year's Eve, so they were waited upon with exceptional attention. They sat down to a first course of white soup, a saddle of mutton, and a raised pie with sweetbreads and winter vegetables.  This was removed by a second course of ribs of lamb, accompanied by oyster patties, apple puffs, raspberry cream and lemon jelly.  An assortment of cakes followed, and John ordered champagne to toast both the new year and their evening's entertainment.   Molly was in raptures over the dishes set before them, laughing as she tried to dissuade Georgia from putting a bit of everything onto Molly's plate - to no avail, of course.  Sherlock was more interested in talking about the opera they'd just seen, absently eating his way through the food John slipped onto his plate while explaining the themes to the rest of the party.  He'd been particularly taken by the magpie's theme, humming bits of it to them, to John's delight.  John even entered into an argument with him over whether the magpie was an agent of uncaring Nature or something darker and deliberately evil, for the pure pleasure of listening to his husband expound on the subject.  And although part of him missed the traditional Hogmanay celebrations of home, John thought that he'd never spent so enjoyable a New Year's Eve.

Finally, when the new year had been toasted and they couldn't manage another morsel, John put them into a cab.  Molly was delivered to her residence first, a shabby-gentile boarding house that made her blush hotly to have them see it.  Georgia didn't seem to mind, gallantly seeing Molly to the door with a kiss bestowed to her gloved hand, while John and Sherlock waited in the cab.  The young Alpha returned to the carriage with a dreamy smile on her face, content to sit in silence during the ride back to Baker Street.  Sherlock was also disinclined to speak, although John caught him humming snatches of music under his breath.  And the warm kiss that Sherlock bestowed upon him when they went to bed assured John that his present had been well received and greatly appreciated.

 

* * *

 

The members of the household were a bit listless the next day, with both Sherlock and Georgia sleeping till nearly noon.  John, inured to early rising in the army, was up mid-morning and settled at his desk to go over the few items of business that needed to be completed before they returned to Scotland.  The architect was scheduled to come the next day to look over the property next door so John needed to list his questions beforehand.  This task finished, he turned to writing out the account of the Crooked Man for possible publication.  He was just completing the first draft when Georgia wandered into the sitting room and curled up into one of the chairs.  She hadn't dressed for the day yet, clad in her nightshirt and dressing gown, with her legs tucked up under her, and seemed content just to sit and watch the fire.

When John put his pen in the stand and blotted the final sheet of paper, Georgia roused herself to turn towards him.

"Uncle John?"

"Mmm?" he said absently, glancing over the first page and debating over whether the title should be "The Adventure" or "The Mystery" of the crooked man.

"Father expects me to marry well, doesn't she?"

John lifted his head and turned towards his niece.  "I expect that she does."

Georgia nodded.  "Mother, too."

"Undoubtedly."

"I should think of the family when I make my choice, shouldn't I?" she said, sounding melancholy at the thought.  "That's what you did."

John frowned at this.  "It's not quite the same situation, Georgie.  Your father has managed her estates well and your mother brought a fine dowry to their marriage.  You have no need to seek out a rich partner."

"If you hadn't needed the money, would you have married Uncle Sherlock?" Georgia asked frankly.

"I doubt that I would have known of his existence," John said, equally frank.  He found that the thought that he might not have met Sherlock disturbed him.  "His brother arranged our meeting because we had complimentary needs."  He paused, trying to think back to that distant day.  "But if I had taken a dislike to him - or he to me - we would not have married."

"You _do_ like Uncle Sherlock, don't you?" Georgia said, an anxious tone to her voice.

"Very much so," John agreed.  "I can't imagine anyone suiting me half as well as he does."

"So perhaps it wouldn't be so very bad, if I were to marry whomever Father or Mother wished me to," Georgia said, sounding as if she was trying to convince herself.

John crossed the room to sit by her, taking her hands.  "Georgia, while that may be true, when you decide to marry it should be someone that _you_ choose, not your parents.  Arranged marriages can be successful but so can love matches.  And both can go awry, of course, so you should be very sure of your heart and your mind before you make a choice."

Georgia nodded, still looking troubled.  "How will I know what my heart desires?"

"Give it time, love.  You have no need to rush, particularly as you'll need your parents consent before you can marry for the next three years.  Get to know Molly, to see if your natures are compatible, if your silences are as pleasant as your conversations.  Grand passions are fine but what about the quiet moments?  Years from now, when you look at her across the breakfast table, will your heart still be as glad to see her face?  When you sit next to her by the fire in the evenings, will the companionship of middle-age be satisfying or miserable?"

He lapsed into silence for a moment, glancing over at his own fireplace, thinking about the companionable evenings he'd shared with Sherlock.  He hadn't known that marriage could make him feel so content, while at the same time the memories of their many adventures made his pulse quicken.  Lips brushed his cheek, bringing him out of his thoughts, and he turned his head to find Georgia smiling at him in amusement. 

"Thank you, Uncle John." 

She rose from the sofa and strode from the room, passing Sherlock in the doorway.   He turned to watch her run up the stairs and then turned back to John, raising an eyebrow inquiringly. 

"Love's Dream not as sweet as she thought?" 

His voice was a little sharp, his words stinging, and John thought that Sherlock should have rested longer if he was going to be ill-tempered.  Still, he was glad to see his husband and rose from the sofa, crossing to Sherlock.

"More of a crisis of conscience," he said, audaciously kissing his husband's cheek.  Sherlock started in surprise, then glanced up at the kissing branch above him and rolled his eyes, but John could see the tense lines around his eyes smooth out.  He grinned at Sherlock before pinching off a berry and tossing it in the fire.  "Shall I ring for tea or do you want something more substantial?"

"If you persist in stuffing food into me, I shall be too large to fit in the carriage with anyone else," Sherlock grumbled, which John took as a request for a full breakfast. 

He tugged the bell-pull while Sherlock went to his usual chair, and John was amused to see that his husband was attired nearly the same as his niece.  He even looked very alike curled up in the chair - as much as he could curl up in his condition.  John felt a curl of affection and once again thought how much he would miss knowing Sherlock if events hadn't occurred as they did.  To hide this sudden sentimentality, he went to his desk and resumed his writing.

It wasn't until many months later that he wondered why he had felt the need to hide this from Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

The next day the architect arrived mid-morning, a cheerful young man by the name of Alfred Kettering with an air of confidence to him that John found very reassuring.  He looked over both 221 Baker Street and the house next door with a careful eye, making many notes.  When they had finished, they returned to the main parlour at 221 where Mrs Hudson had tea waiting.

"I see no problem with joining the two houses," Mr. Kettering said.  "As the kitchen is larger on basement level next door and is connected via the backstairs to the dining room there, I recommend using that one instead of the smaller one here.  How would you like to re-purpose your current kitchen?"

John had thought about it.  "Could it be turned into a bedroom?   I had the thought that our housekeeper would enjoy having more private sleeping rooms than the one next to this parlour."

Kettering nodded.  "I see no problem with that, and the flue for the stove could be refitted with a Franklin stove to provide heat.  And then the current bedchamber could be made into your housekeeper's parlour, if she doesn't have one."

John nodded agreement to that.  "Would there be more rooms for servants?  We are sadly lacking at the moment."

"Certainly.  The scullery below here would be unnecessary and can be refitted into a large bedchamber, for one or two maids.  There is already a bedchamber for the cook in the new section, and a modern W.C. could be installed under the stairs for the use of the female servants.  And the third floor should be able to provide any additional bedrooms for servants.  In addition, I see on the architectural drawings that the property next door includes a stables at the back of the garden, with two rooms above and a privy below.   What would your requirements be?"

John had made notes about that, thinking of the provisions at Saughton and what they would need in London with their expanding family.  "Currently there's Sherlock's valet, our page-boy, a scullery and house-maid, plus Mrs. Hudson.  We will need room for a valet for myself, another housemaid, and a nanny - and the nanny's room should be large enough for a governess or tutor one day.  Plus bedchambers for guests."

Kettering consulted the plans.  "I believe that adequate room can be made by gutting much of the third floor and refitting it.  A day and night nursery plus the nanny's room would be on the new side where there are four small rooms now.  Then on this side, remove the maid's room to allow for a hallway between both sides, and convert the current nursery into two rooms for your valet and the page."

"And would that be the only connection between the two sides?" John asked.  He thought that would damned inconvenient, having to go to the third floor or through the exterior doors to access each side.

"No, indeed.  If you'll look here, I believe that on the basement level an opening can be placed between the kitchen and the staff room," Kettering said, sketching on the plans with a pencil.  "Then a door in Mrs. Hudson's new parlour would allow her access to both sides, very conveniently, and another archway on the first floor would join the landing on the other side with your current dining room.  Perhaps that could become a study for yourself?"

John nodded.  "That sounds reasonable."

"The first floor of the new house would be fine once the opening to this side is made, providing a large salon and library.  The second floor would remain untouched, with your private bedrooms on this side and guest rooms on the other.  However, all the other floors would be affected, to some degree.  The revisions to the property will cause quite a bit of noise and dust," Kettering cautioned him. 

"We'll be in Scotland for the next few months," John told him.  "And I will make arrangement for our servants to be elsewhere."

Agreements being made between them and Mycroft appointed to act on John's behalf while he was gone, the matter was settled.   Mrs. Hudson, when asked about her preference while construction was taking place, was delighted at the thought of a proper vacation in Scotland, although John suspected that it was the prospect of being there for the baby's birth that appealed the most.  Billy would also accompany them, while Jane and the scullery maid decided to seek other employment rather than brave the wilds of Scotland.   John sent another message to Wimmering, to warn him about the expanded nature of their party.

 

* * *

 

Before he knew it, Twelfth Night was upon them.   Sherlock decided against going out, disdaining the rowdy crowds that would be making the most of the day, and John was content to spend the evening at home.  Georgia, however, decided to take Molly to the ballet at the Drury Lane Theatre and then to see the bonfires under Lestrade's protection, so John was surprised when the pair returned to Baker Street in the early evening hours.  Sherlock had been playing his violin, going through a selection of John's favourites while John stripped the room of its greenery when the pair burst into the room, looking flushed with excitement.

"I didn't expect you home so soon," John said, taking in their appearance.  He hadn't thought the day was so cold and wondered what mischief they could have gotten into this early in the evening.  "I thought you planned to take in the bonfire at the park."

"Plenty of time for that," Georgia replied, throwing her cloak over a chair and turning to Molly.  "We wanted to bring you these."

Molly pulled out a large goose, dead and looking a bit bedraggled, and a gentleman's hat.  She grinned at John, looking a bit like a cat who had produced a dead bird for its owner.

"You shouldn't have gone to the trouble," John said dryly.  "Really."

Sherlock, however, had set aside his violin and approached the items which Molly laid on the table, looking at them with interest.  "Do be serious, John.  There is a mystery here.  Where did you come by these items?"

"After the ballet, we dined at a cosy place in Bloomsbury," Molly began.  "Since we are to join Mr. Lestrade at their house and the hour was still early, we decided to walk from there." The flush on Molly's cheeks as she said this told John that part of the reason for the walk was to enjoy each other's company for a while longer.

"As we were passing Gilbert Place on our way to Great Russell Street, we heard an altercation," Georgia continued.   "An inebriated man had fallen afoul of some toughs - "

"And Anthea - Viscount Ratho - just charged at them, making the boys flee!" Molly interrupted, giving Georgia a look of adoration.  "She was very brave."

Georgia flushed slightly at the praise.  "Unfortunately, I frightened the drunken man as well, and he dropped his belongings as he took to his heels.  Molly gathered them up, as you see."

"We didn't know what to do next, so we decided to bring the items to you!" Molly added triumphantly, turning to Sherlock.  "If you can determine enough about the owner, we can put a notice in the papers and restore his belongings to him!"

Both young women looked at Sherlock expectantly and he didn't disappoint. "An excellent if early birthday present," he announced. "If you will give me a few moments of silence, I'll endeavour to determine something from them."

Sherlock wasted no time in setting to work in studying the two items.  First he surveyed the goose from all angles, paying particular attention to the tag around one leg, which was addressed to Mrs. Henry Baker.  "A fine specimen," he said after a few minutes.  "Freshly killed no early than yesterday morning and kept on ice since then.  However, I do believe that it would be best to present this to Mrs. Hudson immediately, as I doubt it will keep until we locate its owner.  No doubt it will make an excellent addition to tomorrow's dinner."

Georgia sighed as Sherlock directed these words to her and she picked up the goose.  "Don't say anything more 'till I return," she ordered Sherlock, hurrying off to convey the fowl to the housekeeper. 

Sherlock turned his attention back to the top hat, which to John appeared disreputable and much the worse for wear, even taking out his magnifying glass for a closer look at the lining.  Molly perched on a chair nearby, her attention riveted on the detective, and when Georgia returned, slightly out of breath, she leaned over the back of the chair to watch as well.  Knowing that this process could take some time, John returned his attention to removing the rest of the greenery, tossing the garlands onto the fire.  After about a half hour, Sherlock made a satisfied sound and stepped back from the table.

"Well?" John asked.  "Are you able to discover anything about the owner?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock replied.  "I know _everything_ about the owner."

"Really?" John asked, slightly sceptical that Sherlock could have learned everything about a man he hadn't seen in such a short period of time.

"The goose and the hat were owned by one Mr. Henry Baker - that much we can discern from the tag on the goose's foot and the initials inside the hat.  However, there are a dozen or more Henry Bakers in London, so we must narrow it down.  This particular gentleman is of some intellect and until recently he has been well-to-do and possessed with considerable foresight.  Unfortunately, he has fallen on evil times - no doubt due to drink, which has caused a sharp decline in his former careful habits.  It has also caused his wife to cease loving him.  He is middle-aged and leads a sedentary life which has also caused him to be out of shape.  Furthermore, he visited his barber within the last few days and anoints his hair with lime-cream."

"You are teasing us," Georgia said, giving him a dark look.  "How could you possibly know all of that?"

"It is quite simple.  First, there is the quality of the hat.  This was an expensive model about five years ago, made of beaver and lined with silk petersham.  It comes from the shop of Mr. Thomas Dollman who holds the patent for what he calls a 'travelling hat'.  The uniqueness of this hat is the steel spring sewn into it near the crown which allows the hat to be flattened for travel."  Sherlock demonstrated by pressing down on the hat, compressing it into a flat circle.  "A double ribbon under the band would then be pulled over the top of the crown to keep it in place, but you can see that this ribbon is missing.  There you see the example of his forethought in securing a hat that could be easily packed for travelling, but the loss of his former good habits in that he has not replaced the broken ribbon.  Furthermore, that he still wears a hat this old on a daily basis shows that he is unable to afford a new one, thus proof that he has fallen on hard times."

'His appearance?" Molly asked timidly.  "How do you know that?  Oh, and the barber!"

"On the lining of the hat I can smell traces of lime-cream and see grizzled hairs, clean-cut, which indicates the services of a barber and the colour of his hair.  That also tells us that he is not in the flush of youth.  There are also marks of moisture around the rim which indicates that the wearer perspires freely, showing that he is out of condition."

"You said that his wife has ceased to love him," Georgia pointed out.

"This hat has not been brushed in weeks," he said.  "No loving spouse would allow their husband to leave the house with their hat in such a state.  And we know that he is married for he was bringing home a goose for Epiphany as a peace-offering."

"Brilliant," John said.  "But how can you be certain of his intelligence?"

In reply, Sherlock donned the hat.  It came down over his forehead and settled on the bridge of his nose.  "It is a question of capacity.  A man with so large a brain must have something in it."

All three of them burst out laughing at the  sight but their amusement was interrupted by a sudden loud cry from Mrs. Hudson downstairs.  Sherlock removed the hat and exchanged a look with his husband while Georgia ran to the landing and peered down at the ground floor to see if there was an intruder.  A moment later, Mrs. Hudson rushed up the stairs and into the sitting room.  Her cap and apron was disordered and there was a look of dazed astonishment on her face.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"The goose, my lord!  The goose!" she replied.

"What of it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.  "Has it come back to life and flapped out through the window?"

"I was preparing the bird for dinner tomorrow," she said, breathless with excitement.  "And see what I found in its crop!"

She held out her hand and in the palm rested a brilliantly blue stone, about the size of a bean, and of such quality that it sparkled in the light from the candles.

Sherlock sat down in his chair abruptly, his eyes large with astonishment as he stared at the item.  "John, do you know what that is?"

Immediately, John recalled the headlines in the papers.  The Countess of Morcar's blue carbunkle had been stolen from her rooms at the Hotel Cosmopolitan a few days earlier.  A plumber who had performed a small job in the suite that day had been arrested and sat in jail, the case against him being reinforced by some acts of thievery when he'd been a lad.  However, the gem had not been recovered, although they had searched both the man's person and his home.

"Well, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said turning to the young Beta.  "It appears that your act of kindness will be repaid.  There is a reward offered of one thousand pounds for information on the gem, and no doubt more for its return."

Molly's face went white with shock and she sat back in her chair.  "A - a thousand pounds?" she asked, her voice barely more than a squeak.  Mrs. Hudson nearly fainted as well; John caught her and helped her to his chair while Sherlock snatched the gem from her hand.

"And that is only a fraction of its worth," Sherlock said, holding the gem up to the light.  "I dare-say that the Countess of Morcar would part with significantly more to recover this gem."

John frowned.  "But how did such a gem come into the hands of the gentleman that you have described?"

"That, John, is _the_ question!  You have put your finger on the heart of the matter, as usual.  We must speak with Mr. Henry Baker and see if he can shed some light."  He set the gemstone down on the table and turned to Georgia.  "Draft this for insertion in all the morning papers."

Georgia eagerly grabbed a slip of paper and a pencil, writing down the words that Sherlock dictated.

 _Found at the corner of Gilbert Place and Museum Street on Twelfth Night_  
_a goose and a beaver top hat.  Mr. Henry Baker can have both by_  
_applying at 10 am today at 221 Baker Street_

"Will he see it?" John asked.

"He is sure to keep an eye on the papers as the loss was a heavy one to a poor man.  And the inclusion of his name will catch his attention."  He turned back to the two young women.  "You will have just enough time to drop this at the advertising agency on your way to my brother's house."

Georgia nodded, tucking the paper into her pocket before catching up their outer garments.  Molly still looked dazed, standing in the doorway as Georgia went to her, and impulsively Georgia kissed her cheek, then pointed up to the kissing branch with a grin.  Molly blushed and laughed, then let Georgia wrap her in her pelisse before following her down the stairs.

"And there is the end of that nonsense," Sherlock said, crossing to the doorway and removing the last berry from the kissing-branch before tossing the whole thing into the fireplace.

Mrs. Hudson pushed herself to her feet and straightened her apron and cap.  "Well, that bird isn't going to prepare itself, although it will certainly be the most costly meal I've ever eaten, even compared to the pair of peacocks that His Grace - my second Gentleman - served me at his Italian villa!"  With this parting knowledge, she returned to her kitchen and the half-prepared goose.

John picked up the gemstone from where Sherlock had left it sitting on the table, turning it over in his fingers and admiring its facets.  "What a bonny thing it is!" he murmured.

"And yet it's been a focus for crime, and every facet stands for a bloody deed," Sherlock said, coming to stand beside John.  "It is not yet twenty years old and has to its credit two murders, a suicide, a vitriol throwing and several robberies before this one.  It is the devil's plaything, and a purveyor to the gallows."  He turned away abruptly, striding to the fireplace and staring down at the burning bits of greenery.  "Lock it up in your strongbox and send a note to the Countess to say that we have it."

"Do you think that the plumber - Horner was his name, I believe - is innocent?"

"I will know more tomorrow, after we question Mr. Baker."

"And is he involved in the matter?"

"I think it more likely that he is completely innocent and had no idea what item of value he held, else he would not have abandoned the goose so easily.  Which reminds me - I will instruct Jane to fetch another goose in the morning to replace the one that Mrs. Hudson is currently plucking."

"And there is nothing else we can do tonight?"

"Nothing, save return to our former activities."  Saying this, Sherlock picked up his violin and bow, continuing where he had stopped when the women had entered, then switching to a new piece.  John recognized it as the overture from the opera they'd seen the other night, and he settled into his favourite chair, closing his eyes and losing himself in the music.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, promptly at ten, there was a knock at the front door and Mrs. Hudson admitted a tall man wearing a soft cap on his head.  She showed him into the ground floor parlour where John and Sherlock waited.

"Mr. Henry Baker," Sherlock said, rising from his chair.  "Come in, please, and warm yourself by the fire for the morning is chill.  Tell me - is this your hat?"

He was a large man with rounded shoulders and a massive head, and an expansive forehead that bespoke intelligence.  A touch of red in his nose and cheeks and a slight trembling in his hand as he reached out for the hat proved Sherlock's conjecture about the drinking, for John had seen similar tells during his years with the army. 

"It is a fine piece of workmanship," Sherlock continued.  "I am surprised that you did not advertise its loss."

Mr. Baker gave a little shamefaced laugh.  "Shillings are not as plentiful as they once were, and I had no doubt that the gang of youths had carried off both my hat and bird.  Spoils of war, eh?"

"Very naturally.  By the way, we were compelled to cook the goose."

A dismayed look crossed Mr. Baker's face.  "You - you cooked it?"

"We feared that we wouldn't be able to locate you before it became of no good to anyone," Sherlock said.  "However, we have procured another goose, which you may see on the sideboard, of about the same weight as the other, and it was freshly killed this morning.  I assume that it will suit your purpose?"

"Oh, excellently," Mr. Baker said with relief, turning his body so that he could view the fresh goose lying on the table behind him.

"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs and crop of your own bird, should you wish them - ?"

Henry Baker let out a hearty laugh.  "While they might be useful as a reminder of my adventure, I hardly think that the _disjecta membra_ of my former fowl will be of any use to me.  No, my lord; I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird that I see on the table."

"Would you mind telling me where you obtained the other bird?  Seldom have I seen such a fine goose here in London."

"Not at all," Mr. Baker replied as he rose from his chair and tucked the new goose under one arm.  "There are a few of us who work at the British Museum during the day and repair to the Alpha Inn across the road in the evening, to share a companionable pint.  The landlord there instituted a goose club through which, by paying a few pence a week, we were to receive a goose at Twelfth Night."  He fitted his hat to his head and gave them both a bow.  "Thank you, my lord, and best wishes for the season."

After he had left, John turned to Sherlock.  "So it is as you said - he had no notion that the bird contained the gem."

"Yes."  Sherlock rose from his chair saying, "Are you in need of further sustenance, John?  If not, I would like to pursue this clue while it is fresh."

John indicated his willingness to do the same and fetched their coats.  Suitably attired against the chill day, they hailed a cab and proceeded to the British Museum where they easily located the Alpha Inn.  The proprietor was just unfastening his shutters in preparation for the luncheon holiday throng but he was more than willing to tell them where he'd obtained the geese and, after bestowing a crown on the helpful man, they next made their way to Covent Garden.  Breckenridge's stall was easily found but the owner was not so willing to part with the information about from where he'd obtained the geese.  Sherlock had to resort to a trick, pretending that he and John had a wager on the matter of whether the Alpha Inn's geese were town or country birds.  Breckenridge rolled his eyes but apparently he'd seen enough of the sporting Ton that he readily accepted the fiction of a bet and provided them with the information that a Mrs. Oakenshott on Brixton Road had provided the geese.

"Well, I fancy we are nearing the end of this trail," Sherlock said as they walked away from the stall.  "We shall visit Mrs. Oakenshott and see what she has to say - "

He stopped abruptly and turned back the way they had come, and John turned with him.  There, arguing with Breckenridge, was a rat-faced little man.  He was fairly trembling with anxiety, demanding to know where the birds from Mrs. Oakenshott had gone and insisting that one of them was his, until the salesman fetched a stout broom to drive him away.

"I fancy that we have saved ourselves a trip to Brixton Road," Sherlock said.  He strode after the little man, touching him on the shoulder from behind and startling the man so much that he cried out.  "I beg your pardon," Sherlock said, "but I overheard your conversation and I believe that I can help you.  You are attempting to locate some geese, sold to Breckenridge by a Mrs. Oakenshott.  Is that correct?"

The man looked at Sherlock as if he was the Voice of Salvation and clasped his hands together.  "Sir!  You have no idea how interested I am to hear what you know."

"The morning is cold - it would be more congenial to discuss this in private in a warm parlour, don't you think?" 

Sherlock summoned a cab with his usual ease and, after a moment of hesitation, the little man climbed into it, sitting across from John and Sherlock.

"May I know whom I am assisting?" Sherlock asked after giving the cab driver their address.

The man looked between them, licked his lips, and said, "John Robinson."

"No, your real name," Sherlock said with a sigh.  "It is so tiresome doing business with an alias."

The man flushed.  "My name is James Ryder."

Sherlock nodded.  "Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan." 

Ryder went pale.  "How - how do you know - "

"It is my business to know such things," Sherlock said simply.  "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Ryder made a little moan and sunk back against the cushions of the cab.  "I am done for," he said, his voice thin and trembling.  He was silent for the rest of the trip to Baker Street, and trembled so much that John had to help him from the carriage and into the house.  Once he was settled on the sofa in the parlour, John gave him a small glass of brandy which helped to restore Ryder's senses.

"How - how do you know of the matter?" he asked at last.

"The goose came to my house, through the most remarkable of occurrences," Sherlock replied, sitting down in the chair opposite.  "And then it laid an egg after it was dead - a bonny blue egg, my husband called it.  Don't worry; it is safely locked up until the Countess of Morcar comes to claim her property."  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared down the miserable man huddled on the sofa.  "Now - how did you obtain the stone?"

Ryder crumbled, telling him about her Ladyship's maid and how the pair of them had planned it one day when the Countess was out.  How they'd made a job for the plumber to repair and Ryder had made certain that Horner was sent for, having heard of his youthful misdeeds.  How they'd taken the stone and then raised the cry, accusing Horner.  How Ryder had sought for a safe hiding place for the gem and had come upon the idea of feeding it to the goose that his sister had promised him for the holiday.  Only he'd mixed up the birds and taken home the wrong one, only discovering the truth when he'd opened the goose's crop.  When he went back to his sister's house, he'd learned that the geese had been sent to market, and then that they'd been sold on, with no hope of him finding it. 

"I thought I'd go mad," Ryder said, concluding this matter by burying his face in his hands.  "I haven't slept nor eaten, and now I'm a branded thief without having touched the wealth for which I sold my character."  He broke down into sobs.

John had been writing this all down and now he raised his head, exchanging a look with his husband.  Ryder was a pathetic excuse for a man but John thought that he might be frightened enough to never commit such a crime, and he wondered his fate should he be sent to prison.  Apparently Sherlock agreed for he let out an impatient sigh.

"Get out."

Ryder raised his head, peering at Sherlock through his tears.  "My lord?"

"My husband has recorded your confession.  Sign it and then get out.  You have a few hours before the authorities learn of this matter and come for you; I suggest that you make the most of it."

Ryder hastily jumped up, signed his name with the quill John gave him, then raced out of the room as if the Devil was on his heels. 

"What a revolting end to the matter," Sherlock said with a sigh.  "I feel the need for a change of atmosphere and a pipe."

They climbed the stairs to their parlour where John locked away the confession with the gemstone, thinking to give it to Lestrade when he arrived later for dinner.  Sherlock settled into his chair with his pipe while John finished his notes on the case, and all was quiet for a few hours.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, as they gathered to share the Feast of Epihpany and celebrate Sherlock's birthday, they shared the story with Georgia, Mycroft, and Lestrade.  Georgia was a bit disgruntled to have missed the end of it as she'd still been in bed, not having returned home until the early morning hours, but Lestrade immediately sent Billy with a note to Bradstreet, knowing him to be the one in charge of the case.  Sherlock emphasized Molly Hooper's role in the recovery of the gem and thus due the reward, ignoring the intent look that Mycroft gave him.  John decided that it would be best to divert his brother-in-law's attention and produced his gifts for everyone present.  Georgia went running for her own offerings, and there was much merriment over the next hour.  John had given Sherlock a new dressing gown, to replace the one that had been carelessly damaged during an experiment, with matching slippers, which he insisted on donning immediately.  To Mycroft he gifted a fine new walking stick fitted with silver, while Lestrade got a warm winter coat from John and accompanying gloves and hat from Sherlock.

John had also received gifts from everyone, but the one that touched him most was the small moleskin writing case that Sherlock had given him.  He'd had the Watson coat-of-arms tooled onto the front cover, and as John ran his fingers over the fine paper, he decided that he would use this notebook to record some of his favourite memories instead of cases, for his personal reading pleasure.  After thanking Sherlock, he tucked the small case into his desk for safe-keeping.

This time, though it was Georgia who was struck to silence when she opened her box and found a fine gold pocket-watch inside.  Sherlock had purchased it from the Royal Arcade, recognizing the fine quality of the watch, and John had had it inscribed, as a joint present from them.  She opened the case and read the inscription, "Mark your Own Time", above their names aloud.   She gave him a questioning look.

"Georgia, I know that your parents have impressed on you the importance of family, of legacy, but I want you to be aware that the world is changing," John said seriously.   "Above all, you must do what makes you happy, even if it is not expedient or expected.  If you should decide to pursue a less-traditional route in your life - politics or public service, for example," he said, with a side-look at Mycroft, "you can count on our support.  The same for whoever you decide to marry in the future."

"The _far_ future," Sherlock added.  
  
Georgia rose from her chair and impulsively hugged him, kissing him on the cheek.  "Thank you, Uncle John."  Then she turned to Sherlock and hugged him too. 

"Enough sentimentality," Sherlock said although John noticed that he seemed to enjoy the embrace as much as John had.  "I'm hungry."

"A holiday miracle," John said with a laugh and led the way to the table which was filled with an abundance of dishes for the holiday feast, prime of which was the roasted goose.

"And the last of the mince meat pies," Mrs. Hudson said, appearing in the doorway with a tray of them which she set on the sideboard.  As she did so, a bit of greenery that had fallen behind the hutch was knocked loose and fell to the ground beside the back leg. 

Georgia picked up the sprig of hawthorn, frowning.  "You missed a bit, Uncle John."

"So it appears," he replied, pulling out Sherlock's chair for him.  "Not surprising, considering how freely you hung the garlands about the place."

"It's bad luck, having Christmas greens left after Twelfth Night," she said, still frowning.

"Superstitious nonsense."  John plucked the sprig from her fingers and walked over to the fireplace, throwing it on the blaze.  Then he returned to the table and picked up his wine glass.  "A toast: to Sherlock a happy birthday, and best wishes to everyone else for the new year."

"To Sherlock!" everyone echoed and drank.

"And now," John added, picking up the carving knife and fork, "shall we see if this bird is as delicious as it looks?"

"Well, it will certainly be the most expensive goose we'll ever eat!" Georgia said drolly.

"Yes, so be careful with your carving, John," Sherlock said.

Everyone laughed and, amid the merriment of the shared holiday meal, all agreed that the bird was without compare.  Whether that was due to its history or the excellence of Mrs. Hudson's cooking went unsaid, but it didn't matter.  The pleasure of the company and the food was enough.

And John, surrounded by his expanded family, reflected on the past few months and his present contentment.  It was a dramatic difference from the previous Epiphany when he'd thought all happiness was gone, and he thought to the year ahead with pleasant anticipation.

  
End of Part Three, The Great Game

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Notes!
> 
> 1) As proof that there is a mysterious connection between Sherlockian minds, I was working on this story and had added the Rossini opera for plot reasons before the Baker Street Babes came out with Episode 65: Sherlock Prom. I was very interested and amused by Matthew Sweet's comments about Sherlock's music choices. And I couldn't resist incorporating something suggested by the Babes' discussion regarding Watson and opera. Thank you, Babes, for the idea!
> 
> 2) Information on "La Gazza Landra", the opera that they attend can be found [ on Wikipedia, ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_gazza_ladra)as well as other places. There is no exact date that I could find for this performance of the opera in London; we know it premiered there on March 10, 1820, and that it was performed again sometime between 1821-1824, when Ebers leased the theatre. As it had already been performed to acclaim, it is a good guess that it was the first opera he had put on after he took ownership, to try to raise money and the reputation of his opera company. 
> 
> 3) A good recording of the overture that Sherlock is humming can be found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tzk7hZpAalE) If you advance to 4:00 of the recording, you may recognize the tune from "The Reichenbach Fall" episode of Sherlock. You should definitely consider this a hint for what is to come, although my take will be very, very different. It might help to know that the opera's title in English is "The Thieving Magpie".
> 
> 4) Obviously, I had to change the event that ended in Wood's captivity. The campaign that Wood and Barclay were involved in can be found [On Wikipedia. ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_Anglo-Mysore_War) There is some controversy regarding Tipu Sultan and his treatment of non-Islamic prisoners, although some information comes from the story of James Scurry, who was a prisoner for 10 years.
> 
> 5) Christmas and the Holiday Season  
> Christmas was celebrated in a different fashion during Regency times, as it wasn't until Dickens and Victorian times that it began involving into the festivities we now associate with Christmas. A number of activities, such as decorating with greenery, were more common to the country rather than the cities. The following links contain more information about Regency Christmas celebrations:
> 
> http://englishhistoryauthors.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-regency-holiday-calendar.html  
> http://randombitsoffascination.com/category/faascinating-history/regency-life/christmas-traditions-regency-life/  
> http://randombitsoffascination.com/category/faascinating-history/regency-life/christmas-traditions-regency-life/page/2/  
> http://www.kristenkoster.com/a-regency-primer-on-christmastide-new-years/  
> http://www.kristenkoster.com/a-regency-primer-on-twelfth-night-wassailing/


	41. Part IV: Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return to Scotland to settle in for the winter and Sherlock's confinement. But their arrival back home at Saughton coincides with three cases - one new and two old - that just might be linked.

**Part Four: The Fall**

**Chapter One**

On the day after Epiphany and Sherlock's birthday, John Watson turned over the keys to 221 Baker Street to the renovation team and temporarily moved his entire household to Scotland.

As the winter had been unusually mild and they had a larger travelling party than on previous journeys, John had booked cabin passage on a packet between London and Leith.  Sherlock was intrigued by this different form of travel and, after his initial indisposition while he got his sea legs, spent the remainder of the trip poking into every corner of the ship and watching with envy as Wiggins and Billy climbed about the rigging as if born sailors.  Georgia, who had been on boats ever since she was breeched, had no problem with the seas, while John enjoyed the freedom to stroll about the decks instead of sitting cooped up in a carriage for a week.  Mrs. Hudson, however, spent the entire three days in her cabin and vowed to never set foot on a ship again.  
  
Once they arrived in Leith, John hired two carriages plus a wagon to convey them all to Saughton Park.  Here there was more snow than they'd seen in London, and by the time they reached the house, they were all cold and weary of travelling.  Mrs. Turner the Younger whisked Sherlock upstairs immediately, with promises of a warmed bed to rest in before dinner.  Mrs. Turner Senior invited Mrs. Hudson to step down to her cottage for tea and a warm-up by her fire, and it was clear to John that the two older women had struck up an immediate friendship.  Georgia went off to the library to compose a message to her parents, informing them of her arrival.  John, in turn, surrendered his outer garments to Turner and proceeded to his study to look over the papers that Wimmering had left for him.  There were very few, fortunately, and he was more than happy to adjourn upstairs to join his husband for a nap and a rejuvenating drink before dinner. 

After Georgia went back to Dalmahoy, they settled back into life at Saughton House as if there hadn't been a three month separation between their last visit.  Word got around to the local aristocracy quickly that they had returned and only the wintry weather kept them from being inundated with social visits.  However, the winter weather also kept away any clients interested in seeking the assistance of a consulting detective, and John worried that this lack of cases would mean damage to his walls.

Sherlock, however, had come up with a way to alleviate his boredom and spent his free time attempting to clear up the lingering questions about the Murphy family.  So far, his attempts to question Mrs. Martin - the former Sarah Murphy - had been fruitless as she withdrew into the Lodge and barred the door at any approach.  The Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy was spending the winter in Bath, so there was no opportunity to ask her for more information about the Irish branch of the family.  And Janet had been equally unhelpful, refusing to allow them entry into the Dower House to speak with her.   Sherlock questioned Hamish but he'd been too young to recall anything about Ireland and he claimed to have lost contact with his brother, Seamus, when he left Scotland almost ten years earlier.    
  
However, a chance question to the older Mrs. Turner turned up a nugget of information about baby Jane's death.  The matter had gone as far as the Sheriff's Court, which meant that the records from the inquiry would be lodged at the main Court in Edinburgh.  So on the first decent day, John and Sherlock made the journey into central Edinburgh.    
  
John expected them to encounter difficulties in obtaining access to whatever records had been made about the case, but he hadn't taken into account the Sherlock Effect, as he privately called it.  Sherlock's entrance into the clerks' office brought activity to a stand-still as everyone turned to watch.  It wasn't just his appearance that caught attention, with his otherworldly beauty enhanced by pregnancy's glow, and his deliberate grace in moving, even at nearly eight months.  It was also his ineffable Presence and a natural arrogance that demanded attention, John thought, as he followed in his husband's wake and watched it take effect.  The clerk whom Sherlock approached didn't stand a chance, turning to putty in moments, and Sherlock soon had access to the report on Jane Watson's death as well a private room where he could rest while he spread the meagre contents of the folder out on a table.    
  
"This is interesting, John," Sherlock said after a few minutes of reading.  "The nursery maid - Molly - stated that the child, almost one, was in her crib in the nursery with the door closed.  While she was an early talker, little Jane was just beginning to walk holding onto hands and furniture, and she wasn't yet climbing.  They accused Molly of leaving the crib side down and the door open, thus allowing Jane to toddle out of the nursery and tumble down the stairs while the Nanny was...otherwise occupied with young Seamus.  There is a flaw in that, however."  He gave John an expectant look.  
  
John frowned in thought, trying to picture the upper floor of Saughton.  "The stairs," he said after a moment.  "How did she get to the stairs?  It's quite a distance from the nursery to the stairs, through the parlour."  
  
"Very good, John, although it's possible that a determined toddler could cross the space.  However, when you showed me the nursery, I distinctly recall that the nursery door closed on its own once you released it."  
  
"It always has, since I was little," John recalled.  "And it sticks a bit when the weather is cold.  I remember my own Nanny fussing at it."  
  
"Which it would have been in early December."  
  
"So there's no way that Jane could have gotten out of the nursery on her own."  John gave Sherlock a horrified look.  "But then that means - "  
  
Sherlock nodded gravely.  "Seamus caused her to fall down the stairs, most likely while the Nanny was asleep, then slipped back into bed with her to allow them to be 'discovered', thus providing an alibi."  
  
"James would have known about the door," John said.  "That's why he didn't blame Molly, and why he sent Seamus away.  He suspected that his son was a murderer."  
  
"Molly will be pleased to be exonerated," Sherlock said.  "Particularly if her romance with your niece continues.  Unfortunately, there is very little in the official file about Seamus.  Your brother was successful in concealing his suspicions."

"But what I don't understand is why he did it," John said.  "What possible gain could there be?  Jane wasn't even the heir - she was an Omega.  And so was Seamus, besides being a bastard.  I'm sure that James would have given Seamus anything, even arranged a respectable marriage if that's what he wanted."

Sherlock frowned.  "There are those who kill for the pleasure of it with no other motive," he said.  "But unless we can lay our hands on him, I doubt that we will ever know."  
  
He closed the portfolio containing the case file and retied the ribbon, then returned it to the clerk.  As he was bidding the young woman farewell, a familiar voice sounded from behind John.  
  
"Lord Saughton?  It is you!  This is a most fortuitous meeting!"  
  
John sighed but put on a pleasant expression as he swung around to see Stanley Hopkins beaming at them.  Then, as John's movement allowed Hopkins to get a clearer view of Sherlock, his jaw dropped.  
  
"I see that felicitations are in order," Hopkins said, as he managed to get his voice under control.  
  
"Thank you," Sherlock said, with a little bow.  "And to you as well, Deputy Sheriff Hopkins.  Isn't this a little out of Glasgow's jurisdiction, though?"  
  
Hopkins chuckled and shook his head.  "I'm not going to ask how you determined that, Lord Sherlock, for I doubt that I'd understand the explanation.  But aye, I've been appointed Deputy Sheriff  - but of Linlithgowshire, working out of Bathgate now, thanks to your advice on my cases."  
  
"They couldn't have chosen a better man for the job," Sherlock said gravely.  
  
Hopkins thanked him, then said, "Are you here on a case?"  
  
"Investigating a family matter," Sherlock replied.    
  
Hopkins looked grave and gave John a little nod.  "Your late brother's death, of course," he said.  John opened his mouth to correct him but Sherlock trod on his foot lightly, stopping him.  "I was newly made a constable just before it happened.  What are your thoughts?" he asked Sherlock.  
  
"We have yet to look at the file," Sherlock said.  Hopkins immediately turned to one of the clerks and sent him to fetch the documents, then signed for them and handed the portfolio to Sherlock.  "Return it to me when you are finished with the file.  I would enjoy hearing your thoughts on the matter although," he added, leaning in to speak quietly to them, "I doubt that you would be successful in having this case reopened."  
  
A voice called his name from down the hall and Hopkins said, regretfully, "I must take my leave; we are processing a prisoner for the Sheriff's Court next week."  With a little bow, he left them.  
  
John exchanged a puzzled look with Sherlock.  "I expected a coroner's inquiry, but not that the Sheriff's court was involved in James' death.  How odd."  
  
"Indeed," Sherlock said.    
  
"And what did he mean about having the case opened?"  
  
"That, I suppose, we will find out once I read the case file."

 

* * *

 

There wasn't an opportunity to go into the case that day for their afternoon was filled with errands, primary of which was a visit to Dr. McCormick.  He was very pleased with Sherlock's progress and predicted an uneventful delivery in about six weeks.  
  
"When the time comes, send for me at this address, any hour of the day or night," Dr. McCormick told John, writing down the information, "Word will get to me no matter where I am."  
  
After that, they dined with his Uncle Alex at his club where he entertained Sherlock with humorous stories about Mycroft as a young man just out of University.  Alex also turned over to John a chest containing some of the Watson family jewels that had been stored with his bank.  He vaguely remembered his mother wearing earrings and necklaces and couldn't picture any of them on Sherlock, but perhaps some of them could be modified.  
  
As they were late arriving home, John half expected that Sherlock would sleep late the next morning, for as his pregnancy progressed he developed a lassitude of manner - like a cat sleeping in the sunlight.  However, he woke up to an empty bed and the information that Sherlock had breakfasted early before locking himself into his lab.  John resigned himself to several dull days while Sherlock lost himself in his experiments, and after breaking his own fast he settled down in the study with the estate books.  
  
He was trying to make heads or tails of the survey for the area where they wanted to build new tenant cottages when his study door burst opened and Sherlock entered, a troubled look on his face.  Alarmed, John rose from his chair. 

"Sherlock?  Are you all right?  You didn't sleep much last night - "  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "The baby was restless, nothing more.  I am _fine_ , John."  
  
Feeling a little chagrined, John sat back down.  "Was there something you needed from me?"  
  
"Your brother James' death," Sherlock said, easing himself into the chair across the desk.  "You once told me that you thought it was a suicide.  Why?"  
  
John frowned, thinking back.  "It was Charlie's letter, the way he wrote about James having a hunting accident.  And Uncle Alex said that he died from his own hunting rifle, a few days after the death of his heir.  I assumed the inquest called it an accident to protect his wife, and to allow him to be buried in hallowed ground.  Do you think otherwise?"  
  
Sherlock set the portfolio from the case on John's desk.  "According to the coroner's report, James Watson was shot from a distance.  He did _not_ kill himself."  
  
"But - how could that be?" John asked, bewildered.  "Even if he was accidentally shot by another hunter, the rifle was found beside him.  It was identified as his own."

"It would be easy enough to exchange rifles, particularly if there was a delay reporting the 'accident'."  
  
John digested this for a moment.  "But you don't think it was an accident, do you?"  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  "I suppose it's possible that another hunter shot him by mistake.  At the height of grouse season and considering that the day was very fine, the woods would have been full of hunters."  John said nothing, fixing him with his gaze, and Sherlock sighed.  "No, I don't think it was an accident.  And I think that the sheriff had the same suspicion, which is why it went to Sheriff's court."  
  
"Then why didn't it go any further?"  
  
"Two possibilities, John.  First, it is likely that little evidence was gathered, considering the intelligence of the local law enforcement.  Second, among those hunting that day were several peers of the realm, a judge, a few clergymen, and other highly placed professionals.  Given your brother's reputation with the ladies, a cuckolded husband would be a likely suspect, however the sheriff would be reluctant to point a finger at one of them."  
  
"But you're not," John said. "And you suspect someone."  
  
"Not definitively."  Again Sherlock hesitated.  "I have questions that require answers."  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock sighed.  "Your sister, Harriet, was among those out hunting.  She was late returning home and claimed that she was separated from the rest of her party."  
  
John stared at him, appalled.  "You think that _Harry_ shot our brother?  Why?  They always got along well!"  
  
"It can't have escaped your notice that Harriet is not Archie's father, John.  You might not be the most observant of men, but surely you realized - "  
  
"Yes," John said shortly.  "I _am_ a doctor; I studied biology in university and _yes_ , I am aware that two females can't have male offspring, even if one is an Alpha."  He'd known when he'd first received Harry's letter, on the Peninsula, but she'd been delirious with joy so John hadn't wanted to point it out.  It was one of the reasons that he'd felt uncomfortable around Clara.  "That doesn't make _James_ his father."  
  
"While Archie has his mother's hair, the rest of his features are _clearly_ Watson ones.  Your brother George was already deceased, you and Charles were not in England, so that leaves James."  
  
John shook his head.  "All right, James could be Archie's father, but why would Harry shoot him _now_ , eight years later?  That doesn't make any sense."  
  
"Perhaps she just discovered the truth," Sherlock said and then sighed.  "No, I agree, it doesn't make sense.  Harriet has issues but she isn't that stupid. We will have to talk with her - and with Clara."  
  
John reluctantly agreed, although he couldn't imagine anything more awkward than questioning his sister-in-law about her infidelity.

* * *

The matter was let lie for a few days as January turned to February.  In honour of the anniversary of their wedding, John presented Sherlock with a polemoscope, also called a "jealousy glass" by some.  It was a clever device that looked like a small spyglass but allowed one to view objects to the side instead of straight ahead.  There was a magnetic compass set into the brass cap as well, and the case held a number of useful items such as tweezers. Sherlock was delighted with the device and soon was driving the household to distraction by peering at the servants around corners. 

In return, John received a finely crafted Belgian revolver by A. Francotte a Liege, with wood furniture and an elegant curved hammer.  It was a beautiful weapon that fit to his hand as if custom-made, and when he tested its accuracy on the little pistol range set up behind the house he found that it was extremely accurate.  Sherlock seemed even more pleased by his delight in the revolver than in his own gift.

All in all, John thought that their time awaiting Sherlock's confinement was progressing well, except that his husband's sleep was often disturbed by the baby's restlessness.   After sharing Sherlock's bed for the past few months, now John woke most mornings to find the bed empty, with Sherlock either pacing in front of the fireplace or curled up in the library with some large tome.   He found that he missed the shared mornings, waking up curled around his husband and sharing sleepy conversation about the day ahead.  He wouldn't have minded if Sherlock woke him on those mornings when he couldn't sleep, but as it seemed that his husband preferred solitude, John resigned himself to waking alone.  

Thus he was surprised to be roused by his husband early one morning, with the brisk request to rise and dress without delay.  He was about to utter a sharp retort and go back to sleep but a look at Sherlock's face told him that the matter was serious and his eyes immediately went to his husband's abdomen.  
  
"What's wrong?" he demanded anxiously as he grabbed his dressing gown from the end of their bed.  "It's too soon - "  Words dried up in his mouth as fear gripped him.  It was at least five weeks too early and he couldn't help thinking of Clara and her lost babes.  
  
Sherlock scowled at him.  "Don't be an idiot.  Would I have _dressed_ if I was about to deliver our son?"  
  
"Or daughter," John said automatically, but he could now see that Sherlock was fully dressed save for his outer coat.  "What is the hour?"  
  
"Six.  Dress quickly, John; there is no time to be lost for the matter is urgent."    
  
Sherlock strode from the room as quickly as he could considering his girth.  John ignored his own dressing gown as he hurried to his rarely used bedchamber, shivering in the cold as he pulled on a clean shirt and his discarded clothes from the previous day.  A scant ten minutes later he was running down the stairs.  
  
Sherlock was waiting impatiently in the front hall.  He looked as if he was barely restraining himself from pacing while Wiggins - yawning and looking as if he'd just thrown on his clothing - helped him wrap up against the cold.  With him was a young man who was introduced as one of the sheriff's men, sent by Hopkins.  John cordially shook hands with him before allowing Turner to help him into his outer coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck.    
  
Mrs. Turner stepped forward to hand him a basket and a large flask of coffee. "To break your fast, my lord."  
  
"Bless you," John said fervently, clutching the items as he followed his husband out to the waiting carriage.  Once the carriage was in motion, John turned to Sherlock.  "It's a case, then?"  
  
"Indeed," Sherlock said and handed a note to him.    
  
_3: 30 A.M._  
  
_MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:_  
  
_I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace there._  
  
_Yours faithfully,_  
  
_STANLEY HOPKINS_  
  
  
"Sir Eustace," John said, frowning, turning to the man Hopkins had sent.  "Could he mean Sir Eustace Brackenstall of Abbey Grange in Kirknewton?  One of the wealthiest men in Midlothian?"  
  
"The very same," the young man said eagerly.  "Found by her Ladyship's maid in the dining room with his head knocked in by a poker and Lady Brackenstall half-dead nearby."  
  
"Hopkins has called me in several times in the past, and on each occasion his summons has led to an intriguing case," Sherlock said with satisfaction.  "I have great hopes for this one."  
  
However, after an hour's drive along narrow country lanes, they arrived at the Abbey Grange estate only to be greeted at the front door by an apologetic Stanley Hopkins.  
  
"I am pleased to see you, Lord Sherlock - and you as well, Lord Saughton! - but I fear that I have wasted your time," he said.  "The lady has come to herself and has given so clear an account that there is not much left for us to do.  You remember those burglaries reported in the papers that took place near Scarborough last month, and the gang that committed them?"  
  
"What, the Randalls?" Sherlock asked, and Hopkins nodded.  
  
"Yes, the father and his two sons.  It's their work, clear as crystal, and it's a hanging matter this time."  He looked very sober at this.  "Since you are here, you had best hear the story from the lady herself and then we'll take a look at the dining room."  
  
Lady Brackenstall was one of the most beautiful Omegas that John had ever seen, graceful of form with blonde hair and a perfect complexion - or it would have been, had her face not been marred by an ugly bruise over one eye.  Her face was drawn and haggard, testimony to the ordeal that she had suffered, and she was attended by a rather severe looking woman who was bathing her mistress's injury with scented water.  
  
"Must I repeat my story?" Lady Brackenstall said wearily, then sighed.  "Very well.  Sir Eustace went up to bed last night at ten, but I remained awake a while longer, reading.  At midnight, I prepared to retire as well - "  
  
"A question, if I may," Sherlock interrupted, although more politely than usual.  "Was that your usual habit, retiring at separate times?  I ask because you have been married less than three years and so one supposes still in the raptures of new love?"  
  
Lady Brackenstall looked down and John could see her clench her hands in her lap.  "Ours was not a love match, Lord Sherlock," she replied quietly.  "He was a business associate of my father, you see, and when Father died in 1819, well... He had not managed his affairs very well and our plantation in Barbados had to be sold to pay off his creditors.  I was homeless, and Sir Eustace offered me both a home and respectability.  My father's solicitor made the arrangements, and I came to Scotland where I married Sir Eustace."  
  
"And you were content in your marriage?"  
  
The lady's maid bristled and snapped, "I don't see what business that is of yours, my lord!  Miss Mary - Lady Brackenstall has endured enough this evening - "  
  
Sherlock held up his hand to stop the barrage.  "I meant no insult or disrespect.  As my marriage was also arranged, I merely wished to convey my understanding of the situation."  
  
Lady Brackenstall's eyes flicked down to Sherlock's abdomen and then over to John, then she nodded.  "You should know, for I'm certain that those in the village will tell you, that Sir Eustace had developed an over-fondness for alcohol of late.  After - after I lost our child it became worse.  By ten in the evening he was generally so in his cups that his valet had to put him to bed.  It was the same last night."  
  
"I see.  Please, proceed with your story," Sherlock said, settling back in his chair.  
  
Lady Brackenstall pressed a handkerchief against her lips, seeming to seek the composure to begin.  "It is my habit to walk around the ground floor to make sure that all is secure as Sir Eustace is - was - not to be relied upon for this.  As I walked through the dining room, I felt the wind and saw the curtains billow, and I realized that the French doors to the garden had been left open.  I went to close it only to see the curtains flung open and I found myself face to face with an elderly man.  Two other men were behind him, younger in age.  I opened my mouth to scream but he caught me by the arm and struck me with such a savage blow that I fell to the ground.  I must have been unconscious for several moments, for when I came to myself I found that I had been bound to one of the chairs, with a handkerchief around my mouth to silence me.  I was vaguely aware that the men were searching the rooms, piling the silver candlesticks and other such things in a pile on the table.  
  
"It was at this moment that my husband entered the room - whether he had heard a noise or was in search of more drink I don't know.  He grabbed his cudgel from its place by the hearth, but the elderly man snatched up the poker and struck him fiercely.  Sir Eustace fell to the ground - and I must have fainted again, for when I opened my eyes next, the three men were drinking something - port, I think.  When they had finished, they grabbed their little hoard from the table, putting it into a rough sack, and left the way they'd come."  
  
At this point the maid, who gave her name as Teresa Wright, took up the story.  She'd grown concerned about her Ladyship, worried she'd fallen asleep over her book and would catch a chill in the lower rooms without the fire being tended.  She went downstairs and found her mistress, still bound to the chair and swooning from fear and pain.  Miss Wright had run to the servant's wing to rouse the rest of the house and sent the footman for the constables.  
  
"The servants don't sleep in the main part of the house?" Sherlock asked.  
  
Lady Brackenstall shook her head slightly.  "No.  Only the cook, Teresa, and Stirling - that's Sir Eustace's valet - live in, and their rooms are in the kitchen wing of the house."  
  
"And Stirling had already retired after putting his master to bed?"  She nodded.  "Thank you, Lady Brackenstall.  We won't trouble you any further."  
  
John, who had noted the injured woman's increasing paleness, stepped closer and said to the maid, "Best to see your lady to her bed, and it might be wise to send for her physician."  Teresa Wright gave him a brusque nod, then bent tenderly over his mistress to ease her to her feet and support her to her bedchamber.  
  
John had thought that the mundane nature of the crime would sour Sherlock's interest in the case, particularly since it had already been solved, but there was a keen look in his eyes that said otherwise.  As they followed Hopkins into the dining room, Sherlock's eyes first landed on the body lying before the fireplace, then on the chair where the lady had been held captive.  John took a moment to look around the room, finding it a large room with a rather startling array of trophies and weapons on the walls - hardly the sort of room a refined lady would like, but he supposed that a new bride was reluctant to make too many changes at the start.    
  
His attention was then firmly captured by the body before the fireplace.  Sir Eustace had been a tall man of nearly forty, and his features indicated that many would consider him a well-formed Alpha.  There was something about him - possibly the look of hatred and rage that had set on his face when dying - that sat uneasily with John.  His head injury was severe, and John didn't doubt that he had been dead in an instant from the blow.  
  
"The elder Randall must be a powerful man," he said to Hopkins.    
  
"That he is," the deputy sheriff replied.  "A rough customer, beyond any doubt.  Word was that the gang had caught sail for the Americas but if that's their plan, they'll catch cold at it now.  I sent a runner to Glasgow and Leith to be on the watch for them.  What I don't understand is why they'd do such a mad thing, for they must have known that the lady would grass them out and could give a full description."  
  
John nodded.  "I'm surprised that they didn't silence her as well."  
  
"Unless they struck Sir Eustace in a panic but didn't have the bottom to kill the poor lady in cold blood, with her having fainted and all."  
  
Sherlock had been ignoring them, examining the room in silence, ending up with the cord that had bound the lady in his hands.  "John, have a look at this and tell me what you make of it."  
  
John obligingly came close enough to view the end of the cord.  "A thick enough cord to hold anyone, even a slight woman.  The end is cut, probably by a knife."  He paused and frowned, then looked at the wall where he could see the other end of the pull-cord, high up on the wall.  "He must be able to climb like a monkey, to have gone up there to cut it free."  
  
"Yes, but why would he do such a thing?" Sherlock said.  "Why not just pull the cord down?  Why cut it?"  
  
"To keep the bell from ringing in the kitchen," Hopkins said promptly.  
  
"There was no one on duty at that hour," Sherlock pointed out.  "No one to hear the bell go."  
  
"They wouldn't know that, though, would they?" Hopkins asked.  "Not unless they were watching the place."  
  
"And here's another odd thing," Sherlock said, approaching the glasses on the table.  "Lady Brackenstall said that she saw them drinking from the glasses."  
  
"Yes - no doubt to steady their nerves.  What's wrong with them?"  
  
"There's sediment in this glass - understandable as the bottle is full of it.  What is puzzling is that only one glass contains it while the others are clear.  There are only two explanations: first, that the last glass was filled after the bottle was violently shaken, or second, that two glasses were used and then the dregs poured into the third glass to make it appear that all three were used."  
  
Hopkins frowned.  "Why would the Randalls do that?"  
  
"Why, indeed," Sherlock murmured.  He looked around the room again, then turned to Hopkins.  "Well, I see that matters can be left in your hands, Hopkins.  John?"  
  
He swept out of the house, his great coat whirling around him.  John made their farewells hastily and hurried after Sherlock, climbing into the carriage just before it set off out of the drive.  
  
"You mind telling me why we're heading off in such a hurry?" John asked mildly.  
  
Sherlock scowled.  "There is something wrong about this scenario but I can't discern what it is with Hopkins displaying his idiotic grin.  I need to _think_ , in peace and quiet."  
  
"All right," John said mildly, accustomed to Sherlock's sudden mood changes when he was involved in a case.  Then, realising that they were heading in a different direction than the one they'd taken to get there, he said, "And where are we going now?"  
  
Sherlock gave him an innocent look that didn't fool John for a moment.  "I thought, as Kirknewton is only a few miles from Dalmahoy, we'd stop in for a visit."  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"I haven't had breakfast, it will take us at least an hour to get home.  Surely you'd appreciate a warm drink before we make that trip."  
  
John sighed and surrendered to the inevitable.  "Very well.  Have your way - you always do."  
  
Sherlock just smiled like the cat that had gotten into the cream and settled back against the seat cushions.

 

* * *

 

If the household staff at Dalmahoy Castle was surprised by the arrival of the Earl's brother at just after nine in the morning, they were well-trained enough not to show it.  Within fifteen minutes, John and Sherlock had been relieved of their outer coats and settled in the morning room with a blazing fire to warm their bones and a tray bearing a pot of tea and a plate of muffins on the table before them.  Clara entered the room a short while later, becomingly attired in a worsted wool gown against the winter chill, looking as cool and unflappable as if they'd been expected morning visitors.

"John! Sherlock!" she said warmly, kissing each of them on the cheek before urging them to take their seats again.  "How delightful to see you again!  I've been meaning to call and see how you are getting on, but it's been so hectic here!  What with getting ready to go to London next month, and now Harriet and Georgia out visiting all the holdings."  She poured herself a cup of tea and offered each of them a refill.  "Is that why you're about so early?  I didn't realize you had lands in this direction, John."  
  
"We were out on a case," John said and then, at Clara's disapproving frown, hastily added, "A sad business.  Lady Brackenstall's husband was murdered by house invaders and the sheriff's deputy wanted Sherlock to take a look."  
  
Clara's look changed to a stricken one.  "Oh, the poor woman!" she said.  "I'm well acquainted with her as our estates are neighbours - I'll pay her a visit to offer my sympathy and assistance."  
  
"How familiar are you with her...personal situation?" Sherlock asked.  "And did you know Sir Eustace?"  
  
"I've met Sir Eustace at a few social events over the past few years, although I wouldn't say we were friendly.  He has - had - rather old-fashioned views on the place of Omegas, and he disliked your brother James immensely."  She hesitated and then added, "While Lady Brackenstall doesn't confide in anyone, their kitchen maid is sister to our parlour maid, and she has...heard things that indicated he was a poor husband."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"Sir Eustace's temper when he is in his cups was vicious, and he was rarely more than half-sober.  Lady Brackenstall had a pet dog that she adored; it died not too many months after their marriage - at his hand, so the staff says.   And when she lost her baby a few months later after an accidental fall, well, there were whispers."  
  
"A poor husband, indeed," Sherlock said.  "One would think that he would welcome the child - unless he had reason to think that it wasn't his."  
  
"Sir Eustace was unreasonably jealous of his wife, if anyone even glanced in her direction.  But I have never heard a breath of scandal about her," Clara said firmly.  "She has no beaux, even to squire her to parties, much less a lover."  
  
Sherlock tilted his head.  "And you would be aware of that possibility, would you?  Is it a sense that one develops after having a similar experience?"  
  
"Sherlock," John said in warning.  
  
Clara frowned at Sherlock.  "Are you speaking of my having lost a child as well?"  
  
"No, I am talking about having taken a lover."  
  
Her cheeks flushed in anger.  "How dare you, sir!"  
  
"Do not play coy with us, Clara.  I am aware that Harriet is not Archie's father."  
  
Clara went pale so quickly that John thought she might faint.  He went to her, helping her toward a chair as he shot his husband an annoyed look.  "You pick your moments, don't you?"  
  
Sherlock scowled.  "I don't see the point in dancing around the matter.  Particularly if Harriet had a hand in your brother's death."  
  
Clara made an odd little sound before she fainted dead away, and John caught her as she slumped.  
  
"Sherlock!" John said, furiously.  He set Clara down on the sofa, cushions under her head, and began slapping the back of her hand to bring her round.  "You might have put it better!"  
  
Sherlock drew himself up indignantly.  "John, your brother was murdered!"  
  
"I know.  Just - see if there's smelling salts in one of those bowls.  Clara generally has them lying about."  
  
Sherlock brought over a small glass vial and John uncorked it, waving it under his sister-in-law's nose.  She revived with a gasp, blinking her eyes up at her in a confused manner.  John fetched a glass of sherry from the sideboard and coaxed her into sitting up and swallowing a bit of it, and he was relieved to see the colour come back to her cheeks.  
  
"I - I don't know why I fainted," Clara said weakly.  She drew a deep breath and sat more erect, taking a few more sips of the sherry before turning to glare at Sherlock. "That was a monstrous accusation to make - and in my own house!"  
  
"But you don't deny that James is Archie's father, do you?" Sherlock returned.  
  
"There would be little point in doing so," Clara said tightly.  "However, James was not my lover.   Our - intimacy - was a single occurrence, unplanned and unrepeated."  
  
"James didn't force himself on you, did he?" John asked in concern.  
  
She smiled faintly.  "James didn't need to force himself on _any_ woman.  He had the Watson charm in full force."  She turned to Sherlock.  "No doubt you have noted that trait yourself, Lord Sherlock," she said, her gaze drifting down to his abdomen and Sherlock's cheeks turned a slightly pink shade.  "Harriet has it, too," she said, her voice sounding wistful.  "I remember the first time I saw her, when Mother and I came back from Ireland.  She was so vibrant and beautiful that I could barely take my eyes off of her."  A hint of pink came into her cheeks.  "I allowed her to take certain liberties - we were already betrothed so it didn't seem wrong - and when my Heat began..."  Her voice trailed off.  "Mother was incensed and insisted that we marry immediately, and Georgia was born eight months later."  
  
"Then why James?" John asked gently.    
  
Clara bit her lip, looking undecided for a moment before she sighed and said, "It was during my Heat.  After I lost the last baby, Harriet refused to share them with me.  She could barely stand to look at me, much less touch me.  And I wanted a baby so desperately - it was like I was mad.  Harriet was away from home, in Edinburgh on business for several days.  James came visiting to cheer me up.   Janet was being so horrid to him just then, and he was so very sympathetic to me..."  Clara pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.    
  
_I'll bet he was_ , John thought.  _James had always been one for the main chance - or like a bee trying to pollinate every flower._  
  
"Once he left, I realized what I had done and what Harriet would think, and I panicked.  When she returned from town the next day, she'd had a bit to drink and I gave her more and then we..." Clara bit her lip.  "Harriet was appalled by what happened but so relieved when Charles - Archie - was safely born.  But of course she knew.  Or guessed.  That's why she began drinking so heavily."  Clara buried her face in her hands.  "She must despise me.  But she wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- kill James!  Not her own brother!"  
  
John exchanged a look with Sherlock, advising him to end the questions for now.  Sherlock scowled but went to the door, calling for the footman.  
  
"Please fetch the Countess's maid - I'm afraid that her mistress is a bit over-set and could do with a rest," he said to the man, also sending to the stables for their carriage.  
  
A short time later, John relinquished his sister-in-law to her maid and they took their leave.  They were quiet for the first few miles but once they were on the road back to Saughton, John looked at Sherlock and sighed.  
  
"You were right about James.  Of course you were.  But I still don't believe that Harry would wait that long to take her revenge, if she ever did figure it out."  
  
"Perhaps not, but it poses the possibility that James had trifled with other wives.  Including Lady Brackenstall; the timing of her miscarriage and James' death is suspicious."  Sherlock paused, then gave John a sideways look.  "'The Watson charm'?  Do you also have a string of conquests in your past?  Do all the lads and lasses around Saughton have tales to tell?"  
  
John started to protest but then saw the glimmer of amusement in Sherlock's eyes.  "Not all of them," he returned.  "I was a bit of a late-bloomer, but there are those on three continents who could vouch for my charms.  Not, however, anyone who was married."  
  
"Perhaps you should consider recording those stories as well," Sherlock said, then added dryly, "though not for the general reading public."  
  
John laughed at that but he shook his head.  "I doubt that anyone would be interested," he demurred.  "I am no Casanova."

Sherlock frowned a little but it seemed that his attention had turned back to the case.  "I find it interesting that Lady Brackenstall lost her child in such a way.  I suspect - as Clara said - that the fall was not a normal one, and that Sir Eustace's drinking began well before that loss.  In fact, I believe that Lady Brackenstall was a sorely abused woman.  Her wrists bear bruises in varying colours, speaking of rough usage over a long time."  
  
"But she couldn't have struck him such a blow," John said.  
  
"I agree that someone else was present at the scene," Sherlock said.  "And I can even theorize about that person.  He is taller than myself, strong and brave, as well as quick-witted.  As for occupation - he is a sailor - the knots were ones a sailor would know.  An officer, and one that Miss Mary Frazer met on her voyage from Barbados to Glasgow.  _That_ is how we will find him."  
  
Upon reaching Saughton, Sherlock immediately penned an inquiry to be sent to the shipping lines in Glasgow.  Once that was done, there was nothing to do but wait.  Knowing that Sherlock abhorred the boredom while waiting for such information, John conceived a plan to examine the nursery as part of case involving little Jane, under the guise of overhauling the rooms for their pending use.  Sherlock's interest was readily captured and he questioned the carpenters in detail as they repaired the nursery door, examining with them the hardware and the fit.  At the end of that time, both he and John agreed that there was no way that the toddler had escaped the nursery on her own, and suspicion fell even more heavily on Seamus.  
  
By this time, Sherlock had received a reply to his inquiry, one that appeared to trouble him a great deal.  He sat at the writing desk in the library while he penned out a set of letters so John had the opportunity to study Sherlock's face as he wrote.  Twice he picked up his pen, first to pen a letter to Hopkins which he then set aside, and second to write to a Captain Jack Crocker.  After this second one had been franked and given to Cartwright to post, Sherlock sat back in his chair with a scowl.  
  
"I couldn't do it, John.  Once Hopkins knows what I do nothing will stay the hangman's noose, but I feel sympathy with the perpetrator rather than the victim.  We will hear the story from his lips and then we will know what to do."  
  
From what John had read about the case in the papers, Hopkins was not having an easy time of it.  The Randalls appeared to have disappeared from the earth although rumours followed them.  They were in Ireland - no, they were in the Americas, or they had fled to the Continent or perhaps India.  Still, Hopkins was certain that he had his culprits so he was satisfied to close the case, and Sherlock kept his lips sealed about what he had discovered.  For now.  
  
The day after Sherlock sent off his note, Captain Crocker presented himself at Saughton House, and John had him shown up to the library where they waited.  The man who entered was one of the finest specimens of the sailing profession that John had ever seen, and with several admirals in his extended family, he had plenty for comparison.  An Alpha to the bone, he was tall and well-featured, blond and whiskered with a tan that had been acquired in warmer seas than England's.  His handshake was firm and his countenance honest, and John felt qualms at the distress on Crocker's face.  
  
"I am here, Lord Saughton, at your request, so tell me the worst of it.  Am I to be arrested?  With what am I charged?"  
  
"Don't let your nerves run away with you," Sherlock said, sitting forward.  "John, give him a cigar.  Captain, chew on that and know that if you are honest with us, then we will be fair with you.  But play tricks with me and I will crush you."  
  
Crocker studied Sherlock for a long moment and then nodded sharply.  "I'll chance it, for I believe you are a man of your word.  You will not find me one of those who considers an Omega to be weak-headed or helpless, either."  He accepted the cigar from John, trimming and lighting it, then sat back in his chair.  
  
"First of all, Miss Mary - for I will not call her by that monster's name - is not to be held at fault for any of this.  A better woman you could never hope to meet, and when I think of what she suffered, well, it should make any honest person's blood boil.  
  
"As you will have guessed, we met on the _Rock of Gibraltar_ , on her passage from the West Indies to Glasgow in the winter of 1820.  I was first mate on that ship, in charge of seeing to the comfort of our passengers.  And from the moment that I first saw her, I knew that she was the only Omega for me.  But she was promised to another and, as I am an honest man, I treated her with respect and friendship.  She never saw me as other than a friend, and I was proud to place her safely into her betrothed's hands.  Would that the ship had sunk with all aboard than that had ever happened!  
  
"I never thought to see her again, but after our last voyage I was promoted to captain of my own ship.  I have spent the last few months in Glasgow waiting the outfitting of it, and by chance I ran into Teresa Wright, her maid, who was in Glasgow running errands for her mistress.  She had always treated me in a friendly manner, seeing that I respected her mistress, so she allowed me to take her to tea and told me everything.  I tell you, gentlemen, it drove me mad to think of such a sweet lady being treated in such a manner by her drunken lout of a husband, but what could I do?  They were married by all the accursed laws of this land and she was chained to him, no matter his character.  But I begged Miss Wright to convey my regards and my desire to be of assistance to Mary, whatever she might require. 

"To my surprise she came to Glasgow to see me, to thank me in person for my kind thoughts towards her.  Kindness!  I would have snatched her up and borne her onto my ship had it been ready, to help her flee from that brute but I knew that she would never agree.  That was the only time we met, until that dark night. 

"I had word that my ship would be ready within the week to sail - indeed, we leave on tomorrow's tide! - and I wished to bid her farewell.  Knowing Sir Eustace's habits from Miss Wright, I made my way to the house at night and entered through the garden window, which Miss Wright had left unlocked.  Miss Mary was alarmed to see me, for my own sake, but she drew me into the dining room so that I could have my say.  When she heard my errand was to bid her farewell, she looked as if she had lost her last friend and it nigh broke my heart, so I caught her hand even though she was ungloved and kissed the back of it.  
  
"It was then that Sir Eustace entered the room, calling her the vilest names I have ever heard, and me being at sea all my life.  He struck her across the face so hard that she fell to the ground and raised that blasted stick of his to finish the job. I grabbed up the poker and struck his arm to deflect his aim and he turned on me.  It was a fair fight, my lord, and he landed a blow to my arm that nearly broke it but then it was my turn and he went down.  I knew he was dead but I wasn't sorry, for I knew that she was free of that monster, even if I swung for it.  
  
"Miss Wright had accompanied her mistress, to chaperone our meeting, and it was she who acted to save us all from ruin.  Between us we got Miss Mary up and into a chair, with a glass of port to revive her.  I don't mind saying that I had a glass myself, for I was shaken.  But not Miss Wright!  It was she who determined that we must blame it on burglars, and how to arrange the setting so that, no matter what, Miss Mary would not come under suspicion.  She gathered the silver and I dropped it in the pond on my way to Glasgow.  And that's the honest truth of it."  
  
There was silence for a moment before Sherlock said, "That answers in all particulars my deductions about the matter.  Now, look here, Captain Crocker.  I believe that you acted in an admirable fashion and it is possible that a jury might acquit you as acting in defence of your life. However, as I have a great deal of sympathy for you, if you should choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, no one will hinder you.  After that, I will lay down what information I know to the authorities."  
  
Crocker rose from his chair, flushing with anger.  "And then it would come out and Mary would be left to bear the brunt of the gossip, or even be held as an accessory.  No, sir!  Let them do their worst but I will not allow Mary's name or character to be maligned."  
  
Sherlock looked on him in obvious delight, then turned to John.  "Do you hear this, John?  This man rings true on every note!  Very well, Captain!  The sheriff is pursuing another line of inquiry and has no idea of your part in this affair.  I do not choose to enlighten him, so there is no need for either you or Lady Brackenstall to come into the matter.  Should the finger be pointed in another direction, I will have to disclose what I know, but I think that it is highly unlikely to happen."  
  
Crocker shook his head.  "I say that it will not do, my lord.  Justice must be served."  
  
"And I say it will, but you require a trial?  John - you are a prime representative of the British jury system.  What do you say to this man's guilt?"  
  
"Not guilty," John said readily, for he, too, had developed a fine admiration for the sailor's honesty.  
  
"There you are, Captain!"  Sherlock rose and took Crocker's hand.  "Go, take up your post and your ship.  Come back in a year, when Lady Brackenstall's mourning is ended, and may you both have the happy future you deserve."  
  
Captain Crocker's face brightened and he shook hands heartily with both of them.  John made note of the outcome in his private journal, not for publication, and hoped that he would be able to add a year later that Crocker had returned and that the widowed Lady Brackenstall had bestowed her hand on him.

* * *

The next afternoon, John was just finishing writing up the details of the case when the sound of a horseman approaching the house caught his attention.  He went to the window of his study and saw that it was Harry, riding up the Long Drive as if the Hounds of Hell were on her heels.  With a sigh, he put up his pen and prepared to meet his sister's wrath.  
  
He didn't have long to wait for a few minutes later, Harry burst into his study and strode across the room, swinging her fist to land a solid punch on his chin.  When she drew back her fist for another, however, he caught her wrist tightly in his hand.  
  
"What in the blazes have you done to Clara?" she demanded, trying to pull free.  "I returned home to find that she's hardly left her room the last few days, and the last ones she spoke with were you and that damnable Omega you married!  Where is he?"

"Have a care, Harry," John warned her.  "I allowed you the one blow, but you will not lay a finger on Sherlock."

"I can fight my own battles, John," Sherlock said from the doorway.  He'd apparently heard the fracas from his laboratory across the hall, and now he studied Harry with interest. 

"Of course you can, but you're hardly in fighting trim at the moment," John pointed out.  To Harry he said, "If I release your arm will you do me the courtesy of hearing us out?"

Harry glared at John but as she was no longer struggling to get free, he took that as acceptance.  He released her wrist and went to ring for tea, judging that she had ridden the entire eight miles at that breakneck speed and would need the warmth.

"What did you say to Clara?" she demanded, ignoring the offered chair.

"We are looking into James' death," John began.

Harry snorted.  "I wish you luck with that.  I couldn't get the coroner or the sheriff to see reason for there is no way that James would ever be so careless as to shoot himself."

Sherlock frowned a little as he studied her face while lowering himself into a chair.  "Such was our conclusion, and the coroner did state that the shot came from a distance."

"There!" Harry said, throwing herself into a chair.  "Case solved.  Now, why did you upset Clara?"

"If James didn't shoot himself, then someone else did," John reminded her. 

"And you think _Clara_ \- Lord, have you ever seen that woman shoot?  The one time I took her grouse hunting she couldn't pull the trigger without shutting her eyes and screaming at the noise!  She would have alerted everyone out hunting for miles around - _I_ would have heard her for I was out that day as well." 

John didn't reply, looking to Sherlock for him to lead the questioning.  Harry's frown deepened as she looked at him, then at Sherlock, then she drew in a deep breath.

"Are you actually suggesting that _I_ murdered James?  _Our brother James_?  Are you insane?"  She looked at Sherlock and then turned back to John.  "His pregnancy has gone to his head.  Why would I do such a thing?"  
  
Reluctantly, John said, "Harry, you know that Archie's not your son - "  
  
"Wrong!" Harry said sharply jumping up from her chair.  "James may be Archie's _sire_ , but I am his _father_!  When the midwife put him in my arms and I looked down at his little face, I fell in love.  I've been there _every_ moment of his life, not James!  For God's sake, James was barely a father to his other children!   And Archie, my son... "  She turned away to the window for a moment to collect herself, dragging her sleeve roughly across her eyes before turning back.  "Why would I kill James when he gave me such a gift?" she asked gruffly.  
  
"Then you knew?" John asked, surprised.  "But you didn't tell Clara that you knew."  
  
"Of course not!" Harry snapped.  "Do you think I'd admit that I couldn't give Clara the children she wanted?"  
  
"Georgia is yours, though, isn't she?" John asked, suddenly worried about the Dalmahoy succession.  
  
Harry snorted.  "Oh, definitely mine.  We were so in love and the wedding seemed so far away...  "  She sat down heavily and rubbed her hand over her face.  "You were boarding at the high school so you won't remember the scandal.  Clara's mother had us married so fast that her father and sisters couldn't attend, so they were in Dublin still when the influenza struck.  Clara blamed herself for their deaths, of course.  Called it God's judgement on her for her sin - as if God would take the lives of the people she loved just because of our passion for each other.  And our babies, too..."  She drew in a deep breath.  "After we lost the third one, I couldn't do it any more.  I couldn't bear to see the heartbreak on her face again.  I told Clara that I wouldn't share her Heats.  Then when she delivered a healthy child, after so long, I just thought it would make her happy.  I didn't care that I wasn't the sire - still don't, for that matter.  But Clara... She pushed me further away and I drank more, which made her hate me more."  
  
"Clara doesn't hate you," John said firmly.  "Don't you two _ever_ talk?"  
  
"Not for ages," Harry said wanly, echoing her wife's words from the previous spring.  "I feared to make things worse."  
  
"I don't see how they could _get_ any worse," John said frankly.  "Look, Clara thinks that you hate her because of Archie, and because she can't give you children like a proper Omega.  She thinks that she drove you to the drink.  If you would just _talk with her_ , and be honest instead of _blaming_ yourselves, you could get this sorted out."

"Maybe," Harry said, doubtfully.

"While this is all very lovely and sentimental," Sherlock said, a slight sneer in his voice at that word, "it doesn't get us closer to the person who murdered your brother.  Harriet, did you have any suspicions at the time?"

Harry sighed and sat down in the chair again.  The maid entered the room with the tea tray at that point, giving Harry a chance to collect her thoughts, and as she accepted a cup of tea from John she said, "I can't think of anyone in particular.  I did wonder about Sir Eustace Brackenstall - he was always a jealous bastard and word was he'd accused that pretty wife of his of adultery before shoving her down the stairs.  She lost the child, and it's lucky she didn't break her neck in the bargain.  All for naught, of course - James preferred dark-haired women and Lady B. is blond."

"And a widow now," John added.  "Sir Eustace came upon burglars in his house and they killed him."

"Really?  Well, I don't imagine his widow will shed many tears for if there was ever a man born to burn in hell, Eustace was him."  Harry took another sip of her tea.  "The murderer would have to be a terrible keen shot and cool as marble as well, to chance shooting him out there.  Anyone could have seen him - or her."

"Yes," Sherlock said, frowning in thought.  "It's very odd."

They sent Harry home in the carriage a short while later, with her horse tied behind.  John hoped that she and Clara would talk, finally, but he wasn't holding out any hope on that as they seemed to have lost their way so long ago.   And as he sat down to dinner across the table from Sherlock, he was relieved to know that there was not a similar lack of communication between them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A picture of Sherlock's gift to John (below left), one of the finest revolvers of the time.
> 
> Jealousy glasses (below right) were real, and pretty clever, too. More information on them [ can be found here](http://www.janeausten.co.uk/polemoscope-georgian-jealousy-glasses/)
> 
>  ****  
> 


	42. Part IV: Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy event occurs in the Watson household, but it is not without anxious moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are back to the plot from "A Civil Agreement", taking a momentary rest from cases and mysteries. Much of the plot and some of the dialogue comes from Heyer's story, adapted for my purposes here.

Towards the end of February, Sherlock was brought to bed with his first child.  And from the moment his husband's pains first began, John was brought by his entire household to the realization of just how unimportant to the whole matter he was.    
  
In vain, he pointed out that he was both a doctor and the father.  The month-nurse heard him out with unruffled calm before saying, "That's as it may be, my lord, but we don't need you underfoot at the moment."  Then she firmly shut the bedroom door in his face.  Only the knowledge that she came highly recommended kept John from firing her on the spot.

But the fact that Clara was admitted beyond the sacred portal the moment she arrived just added fuel to his temper, which Harry observed with amusement.  
  
"It's no use in nabbing the rust, Johnny," she said sympathetically, watching as John paced back and forth in the library, muttering imprecations under his breath.  "The way they behave when one of them is in the straw, you'd think we were no better than lobcocks they'd just as soon get rid of!  When Clara was brought to bed, there wasn't a Beta female in the house who didn't carry on like they were a grandmother and me still in my pram."  She poured him a glass of whiskey and held it out.  
  
John laughed and, after draining his glass, sat down to compose a message to Dr. McCormick, as well as a quick note to Mycroft to let him know that Sherlock was in labour, sending both off with Cartwright.  In truth, he was relieved to have Harry with him while he waited for the arrival of the doctor and news about his husband's condition.  Things had been cool between the Saughton and Dalmahoy households during the weeks following Sherlock's disclosures and John hadn't been certain that they would come in response to the note he had sent when Sherlock went into labour.  But the fact that both Harry and Clara had rushed over immediately set John's mind at rest, and he was heartily glad that irreparable damage hadn't been done to his and Harry's relationship. 

In fact, as John nursed a second glass of whiskey and studied his sister, he thought that he hadn't seen her look so at ease and content in years.  There was an air of tranquillity about her as she sat, pretending to read one of Sherlock's books on bee-keeping, and John couldn't resist teasing her a little.

"I thought that Clara was looking in remarkably fine spirits," he said casually.  "Although you seem a bit tired.  Are you not getting enough....rest?"

In reply, Harry presented him with two raised fingers, a coarse soldier's gesture that John hadn't known his sister knew.  John couldn't help laughing out loud at that, and the answering grin from Harry eased his conscience about his part in the matter.

"I'm glad, Harry," he said simply.  "For both of your sakes."

"Not that I've entirely forgiven Sherlock for his part," Harry said, "but thank you."  
  
John nodded and returned to his whiskey and his thoughts, which centred around a bedroom on the other side of the house.  Close to two hours later, the sound of carriage wheels outside drew his attention and John hurried down the stairs to welcome Dr. McCormick.  The doctor had brought his nightbag and student assistant, and his air of confidence did a great deal to reassure John.  He was about to escort him up to Sherlock's room when he heard the sound of another arrival.  After handing the doctors over to Mrs. Turner to be shown to their patient, John turned to the door to greet this visitor, only to receive a considerable shock as Mycroft Holmes walked through the front door.  
  
"Nothing will convince me now that you are not a wizard," John said, stepping forward to shake hands with his brother-in-law.  "It's not been two hours since I sent word to you in London."  
  
Mycroft gave John an amused look as he relinquished his outer coat to Turner.  "Then it is fortunate that I was already on my way to Edinburgh," he said.  "My business allowed me to leave London a week early so you may impart your news to me in person."  He paused and frowned as he looked back towards the door.  "Was that the doctor's carriage in the drive?"  
  
John nodded, taking Mycroft's arm to lead him towards the staircase.  "Dr. McCormick has just arrived.  Sherlock went into labour four hours ago.  The month-nurse is with him - she arrived two days ago and Sherlock hasn't managed to make her resign yet, so I am reasonably hopeful that she will remain for the full term of employment.  Now, would you prefer tea or whiskey while we await Dr. McCormick's report?"  
  
"Tea, I think," Mycroft said, following John up to the library.  "The trip here was both cold and arduous, and I would welcome the opportunity to warm up."  
  
"Greg remained in London?"  
  
"Yes.  The recent celebration of Good Will towards our fellow man appears to have had little effect on the criminal classes.  He is hopeful that he will be able to take a few days for the christening, but as that depends on the competence of his staff, I wouldn't care to wager on it."  Mycroft nodded his head in greeting to Harry as they entered the library.  "Lord Dalmahoy.  Congratulations on your newly-rekindled domestic bliss."  
  
"Lord, I forgot that there are two of them," Harry muttered as she got up from her chair to pour herself a glass of sherry.    
  
John rang for the tea tray which, to his surprise, was delivered by Mrs. Hudson.  "Such a furore in the kitchens!" she told them as she set the tray on the table.  "Everything at sixes-and-sevens - you'd think they never saw a baby born!"  
  
"Considering we hired most of them after the Dowager Countess took the original staff, it's more than likely the case," John pointed out. 

There was an odd feeling inside of him at the knowledge that all his household staff were invested in what was happening.  Not as much as John, of course - it was his child and potential heir being born.  He wished that he could see Sherlock for just a moment, to make sure that he was well, and wondered if his husband was wishing for his presence, too.  
  
It seemed an eternity before Dr. McCormick entered the room.  He appeared quite untroubled and was able to give them a good account of Sherlock's state of mind and health.  
  
"It will be a good while before he is safely delivered," he cautioned them.  "First babies always take a considerable time to make their way into the world.  However, I see no cause for apprehension.  Lord Dalmahoy," he said, turning to Harry.  "Her Ladyship intends to remain here until Lord Sherlock has safely delivered.  As His Lordship is finding her company comforting and Lady Dalmahoy appears to be a sensible woman, I think it best to allow them to have their way."  With this, Dr. McCormick excused himself to return to his patient.  
  
John was surprised - the last time that Sherlock and Clara had spoken was when he was confronting Clara about her infidelity - but Harry didn't seem to think it odd.  The knowledge that Clara was wanted while he was excluded made John feel even more useless, but he swallowed down his anger along with his fear on Sherlock's behalf.  When Harry took her leave to return home to her children, John was able to bid her farewell with a semblance of composure.  
  
John knew that he wasn't fooling Mycroft but took comfort from the fact that his brother-in-law had even more reason to feel extraneous to needs.  Following the doctor's report, Mycroft had withdrawn to the guest room to refresh himself after his long journey before returning to the library to keep watch with John.  Hours dragged by as they waited for news.  Luncheon - a stack of sandwiches prepared by Mrs. Turner Senior - arrived and sat untouched until they were cleared away by the arrival of the tea tray.  John drank cup after cup of tea until he despised the taste but he avoided any more whiskey for fear of being bosky when the news finally came.    
  
With nightfall, John and Mycroft sat down to dinner in the dining room at Mrs. Hudson's insistence for, as that lady said, "starving yourselves won't help that dear boy in delivering the baby".  However, it could not be said that either of them did credit to the meal set before them.  John could not summon any appetite when he thought about Sherlock in travail, and he couldn't help thinking about his sister, Helen, and Sherlock's sister, Sherrinford, and how they had both died in childbirth.  If he were to lose Sherlock - well, it didn't bear thinking about.   Mycroft didn't seem to have any interest in his dinner either, moving bits of food around on his plate but hardly putting a bite in his mouth.  And any time that anyone entered the room they looked up, eager for news, only to be disappointed when it was just a footman bringing the next course.

Giving up on dinner, the two men returned to the library and Mycroft went straight for the whiskey bottle.  By midnight, Mycroft was more than a trifle disguised, muttering over his glass as he stared fixedly at the door.  John, who had been pacing back and forth by the window for hours, suddenly couldn't bear to be shut up in that room any longer and made for the door.    
  
"Where in bloody hell are you going?" Mycroft demanded, rising unsteadily to his feet.  
  
"Out. For a walk," John replied.  "I need some air."  
  
"You need air?  Plenty of air in here - or is it sharing the air with _me_ you can't abide?" Mycroft asked, a belligerent tone to his voice.  "I've seen the way you behave.  Always thinking you're better than us, looking down your nose.  You need some air!  Off to take a stroll around your piddling little barbarian estate in this God-forsaken back-water country!  An estate that you wouldn't even own if not for Sherlock!"  
  
John stood rigidly silent, his jaw clenched so that he wouldn't give voice to the words he wanted to shout in response.  
  
"Much you care about him, bringing him up here in the dead of winter, miles away from civilized society!" Mycroft raved, as if he'd completely forgotten that it had been his idea to send Sherlock into the countryside to begin with.  "Foisting your specialist on my brother and giving mine the go-by!  A man who has attended the highest families in the land!  Well, if my brother snuffs it, _I will ruin you_ , so help me God!"  He pitched his glass at the fireplace, shattering it on the bricks.  
  
Anger, hot and deadly, welled up inside John as he listened and he wanted nothing more than to punch Mycroft Holmes in his smug, supercilious face.  The sudden explosion of glass startled him out of his temper, however, and he realized that Mycroft was trembling with emotions.  He took a closer look at his brother-in-law, noting that his coat and waistcoat were unbuttoned, his cravat awry, and his thin hair dishevelled as if his fingers had been pulling at it.  His face was blotched and his eyes red, and John suddenly realized that Mycroft had tears in his eyes.   
  
"I do care, you know," John said gruffly.  "If anything were to go amiss now, I'll blame myself more than you ever could."  
  
Mycroft turned away as if embarrassed to have John see him in this state and pulled out a handkerchief, scrubbing his face roughly with it.  "Forgive my harsh words, John, please.  It's the whiskey; I rarely drink as it always puts me in a passion."  He took a deep breath and ran his fingers over his head to smooth down his hair before turning back to John.  "Perhaps a breath of fresh air would do us both good."  
  
John led the way downstairs and, after the footman fetched their outer coats, guided Mycroft around to the formal gardens, now bedded down for the winter. The air was crisp and clear, the moon full and high above the horizon, shedding its light over the snow.  In silence they paced the snowy walk-way, stopping once when Mycroft produced two cheroots to light them before continuing on their way.   
  
"It's beautiful here," Mycroft said quietly, as if reluctant to disturb the silence.  "Sir John Clerk's work, I believe?"  
  
John nodded.  "You should come back in August - it looks its best then."  It was a form of apology, one he thought Mycroft might understand and accept.  
  
"Perhaps I shall," Mycroft said after a moment of silence.  "His Majesty is planning to tour the country, and there is talk of visiting Scotland for grouse season."  
  
"You will always be welcome."  There was silence for a long while as they made another circuit of the gardens.  "I know that Sherlock is too good for me," John said finally.  'He is the best and wisest man I have ever known."  
  
"I would say that Sherlock is equally fortunate in his spouse," Mycroft said in reply.  They exchanged an understanding look and finished the circuit of the garden before turning back to the drive, and John knew that Mycroft's earlier outburst would be forgotten by both. 

Refreshed but also chilled, they returned to the house and shed their coats and scarves.  While Mycroft went up to his room to set his face and clothing to rights, John sent a request to the kitchens for soup and sandwiches to be sent to the library, then made his way to his own room.  There he washed his face in the basin and exchanged his coat for a dressing gown, then looked over at the door that joined his bedchamber to Sherlock's.  Resisting the temptation to fling open the door and march to Sherlock's side, he tapped lightly and waited.  
  
Clara opened the door after a few minutes, giving him an amused smile.  She looked weary but composed, and he took heart from that.  "Good evening, John.  Is there something you wanted?"  
  
_My husband_ , he wanted to say.  "We haven't had any word in hours, Clara."  
  
"Sherlock is doing well," she reassured him.  "It won't be much longer."  A noise from the room behind her made her turn her head and John tried to peer past her toward the bed were there was a flurry of activity.  "I must go," she said, closing the door in his face.  
  
John backed away from the door, knowing that his lack of experience in this area would be a hindrance rather than a help but frustrated by his feelings of helplessness. Reluctantly, he returned to the library where he found a light supper of stew and sandwiches had been laid out.  Mycroft was eating a sandwich with the air of someone performing a distasteful but necessary task, and he insisted that John do the same.  John still had little appetite but he managed a cup of the stew and half of a sandwich before abandoning the attempt.  The two men then settled into their chairs to wait, steadfastly ignoring the whiskey bottle on the side table.

Shortly before dawn, the door to the library was flung open by one of the footmen, startling John out of the doze he had slipped into.  Through the doorway walked Clara, a swathed bundle in her arms.  
  
"John!  I have brought your daughter to you!" she said with an air of suppressed excitement, which showed from which parent Georgia had inherited her penchant for drama.  
  
John went to her side but he didn't attempt to take the infant, which was just as well as Clara had no intention of trusting the precious bundle to his inexpert handling.  "Sherlock?" he asked anxiously.  
  
"Resting comfortably," she assured him.  "Exhausted, poor thing, but Dr. McCormick assures me that there is no need for alarm.  Such an excellent man and so skilled!"  
  
"May I see him?"  
  
"Yes - for a  few minutes only!  He must rest."  John turned towards the door only to have Clara call out his name in reproach.  "Have you no thought to spare for your child?"  
  
"Yes, of course," John said, turning back dutifully and peering down at the bundle in her arms.  He thought that he had never seen anything less beautiful than the red and wrinkled face of his daughter.  Her eyes were squeezed shut so he couldn't tell their colour and she had a cluster of dark curls sticking up in all directions, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't be taken wrong by Clara. 

Fortunately, he didn't seem to be required to say anything for Mycroft had joined them, smiling down at his niece with a fond look on his face as he tickled her cheek.  
  
"What a little beauty!" he said, then chuckled as he caught sight of the disbelief on John's face.  "Pluck up, John!  I know what you're thinking but don't fear!  The first time I laid eyes on Sherlock I thought he was quite the ugliest thing I'd ever seen, and you can see how well he turned out."  
  
John laughed but admitted that he didn't think she was very beautiful at all.  "How tiny she is!  Is she healthy, Clara?"  
  
"She's in splendid health," Clara assured him.  "Aren't you, my darling?"

The baby yawned, displaying a flash of blue eyes, before she shut her eyes and pointedly ignored both her aunt and uncle.  Mycroft chuckled at that, and to John's ears it sounded fond and indulgent, a tone he would never have associated with the older Holmes brother.

"Top-lofty already, just like your mother!"  
  
Aware that the two of them were quite absorbed in marvelling over each tiny eyelash and fingernail, John slipped out of the room and made his way to Sherlock's room, running the gauntlet of servants waiting to congratulate him.  The bedroom door burst open as he approached, two maids scurrying out with a load of linens in their arms.  They dropped a curtsey as they hurried past but John only had eyes for the pale figure lying in the bed.  Sherlock looked exhausted and white-faced, and John felt a wave of pity and tenderness wash over him.  He crossed to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss Sherlock's forehead.  
  
"My poor dear," he said softly.  "How are you feeling?  Better now?"  
  
"Much," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse and weary-sounding.  "Just so very tired."  
  
"Then you must rest," John said, taking Sherlock's hand in his and squeezing it.  
  
"An Omega daughter, John," Sherlock murmured.  "Are you disappointed?"

"How could I be disappointed?" he replied, smiling at Sherlock.  "I am assured that she is very beautiful."  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  "I thought her dreadfully red and wrinkled."  
  
John's smile widened.  "So did I," he admitted, "but I was told that she will improve, and that you were much uglier when you were born."

"That would be Mycroft - he is here?"

"Yes, and he would send his best to you if he wasn't making the most peculiar noises to his niece, who treated them with utter contempt.  Very understandable, I thought!"  
  
That made Sherlock laugh so much that the Nurse, who had tactfully withdrawn to the end of the room on his entrance, brought John's visit to an end, informing him that My Lord must now Rest (John swore that he could hear the capitals) and would be glad to see him again after noon.  Reluctantly, John rose to take his leave and, when Sherlock tightened his hold on John's hand, leaned down to kiss him.  
  
"Rest, my dear," he said softly. "I'll be back later, when your dragons relax their guard."  
  
Sherlock chuckled again at this but his eyes were already slipping closed.    "The next will be an Alpha," he murmured sleepily.

John's stomach knotted at the thought of enduring what he had for the past twenty hours, and of putting Sherlock at risk like that again. But now was not the time to think of gloomy thoughts, and he kissed the back of Sherlock's hand before laying it down on the covers.  "Hush," he murmured.  "Just rest."  Then he quietly slipped out of the room.  
  
Strangely reluctant to meet with anyone else at the moment, John went to his own bedchamber and walked over to the window.  Dawn was just breaking, casting its rosy light over the snow lying heavily on the front lawn, giving everything a magical glow.  And John thought that he'd never seen a more beautiful start to a day in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want a taste of John as a Highland chieftain? Then you should definitely check out [Fields of Fire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4904923) by Dryad. It's short and sweet - and it has made me hungry for more of John in a kilt, as the Watson.


	43. Part IV: Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the birth of their child, John and Sherlock recover and entertain visitors - and get ready to embark on a mystery that concerns one of John's old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in the posting of this chapter. First, my laptop developed technical problems and had to be replaced, then I was sucked into the mystery that I wanted to include in this chapter. I ended up having to split the mystery into a separate chapter as it was just taking over the chapter and the tone didn't mesh. The next chapter will be out quicker as I just need to work on the structure of the mystery, combining SIGN and SoT.
> 
> I've also been working on updating my websites and posting ALL my stories here, which took up a chunk of time, but that's done and I am happy. Check it out at http://diana.slashcity.com .

John was awakened from a very pleasant dream - one with Sherlock wrapped around him under the warmth of the bed's comforter while a winter storm raged outside the window - by a sudden sharp, cracking sound.  He started up in the bed, looking around in confusion as both Sherlock and the comforter disappeared, and was bewildered to see the weak winter sunlight that shone in through the windows.  
  
"Beggin' your pardon, m'lord!"  
  
John turned his head toward the voice and saw the youngest of their housemaids sitting by the hearth.  She had apparently dropped a log while mending the fire, awakening him from an unplanned nap.  He had only meant to lie down for a moment, just to rest for a minute and catch his breath before seeing to tasks around the house.  And it wasn't as if his bed was particularly comfortable - it smelled unused as he'd been sharing Sherlock's bed since their return to Scotland, and now it was unbearable large and empty.    
  
"It's fine," he murmured, swinging his legs off the bed. He realized that he'd fallen asleep in his clothes and that he'd been wearing them for nearly two days.  "Um. Would you have the footmen bring up the bathing tub and hot water?"  
  
She nodded and scurried off.  John scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to drive the wisps of sleep out of his head.  He could hear a murmur of voices from the room next door telling him that his husband was awake as well.  John felt an almost visceral need to see his Omega and his child, and he calculated his odds on getting past the dragon guarding that room. Then he squared his shoulders and told himself that he was the Earl, and that this was his house, and strode across the room to open the door tp Sherlock's bedchamber.  
  
The room was a-bustle with activity and seemed overly warm to John, but he assumed it was for Sherlock and the baby's benefit.  One of the maids was mending the fire while another checked that the curtains were drawn tightly over the windows to prevent fresh air from penetrating the room.  A third maid was clearing away a tray under Mrs Turner's watchful eyes, and John was worried to see that the food had barely been touched.  There was no sign of Sister Camwell, the month nurse, to his great relief.  
  
Another addition to the room was a cradle, set close to the hearth.  It was empty so he looked towards the bed where he saw that she was cradled close to Sherlock's chest.  The realization followed swiftly that Sherlock's chest was bare and their daughter was nursing, and it made him blush and hastily look away.  Sherlock's eyes met his, amusement in their depths.  
  
"Good afternoon, John."  His voice still sounded hoarse and his skin seemed unnaturally pale but the easing of the shadows under his eyes told John that his husband had slept for a few hours as well.  "Come meet your daughter properly."  
  
John's feet were obeying before his brain caught up with him, and with only a little hesitancy he sat down on the side of the bed.  Behind him, he was vaguely aware that Mrs. Turner was hustling the maids out of the room and closing the door behind them, but he was too amazed by the sight of his child drawing sustenance to pay them any heed.  Sherlock's thin chest had plumped up a bit during pregnancy, and although he was not as endowed as some Omegas, their child seemed to find it adequate.    
  
John reached out and touched his daughter's cheek, marvelling at the texture of her skin.  She still looked odd to his eyes but her appearance seemed to have improved since their last meeting, and he marvelled at the perfection of her little fingers as they kneaded Sherlock's chest.  "What shall we name her?"  
  
"Clara said that it's traditional in Scotland to name first and second daughters after their grandmothers," Sherlock said, looking down at his nursing daughter.  "Although I confess that she does not look like a Margaret or Marie."  
  
John considered this.  "James already named one of his daughters for our mother, but if you don't want to call her Marie, it is also common to name daughters for their parents' siblings.  That would be Anne, Helen or Harriet on my side."  
  
"And Sherrinford on mine."  
  
There was a wistfulness to Sherlock's voice that caught John's attention.  "Not Harriet - she has enough of a swelled head already," he said decisively.  "Helen was my favorite sister, so what about Helen Sherrinford Holmes-Watson?"    
  
Sherlock nodded and John could see that his eyes were a bit damp.  His own felt far from dry, and he placed his hand over Sherlock's, squeezing it.    "Thank you for our daughter," he said softly.  
  
"You're certain that you're not disappointed?" Sherlock asked.  "That you wouldn't have preferred an Alpha son?"  
  
John was about to reassert that he could never be disappointed but just then the door abruptly swung open with a thump that startled the baby, making her stop nursing with a thin wail.  As Sherlock attempted to hush her, John stood and rounded on the idiot who had disrupted their tranquillity.  It was Sister Camwell, who pointedly looked at the watch pinned to her apron before announcing in a hearty tone that set John's teeth on edge that it was time for the baby and Lord Sherlock to rest while holding the door open for John to leave.  
  
"I am beginning to dislike her heartily," John muttered to Sherlock, leaning over to kiss his husband's cheek.  Sherlock just chuckled in response, but John could see that fatigue was creeping back into his husband's face.  That alone made him acquiesce to his dismissal, although he pointedly used the door to his own room to leave by.  

* * *

   
After bathing and dressing in fresh clothes, John felt a thousand times better.  He was able to sit down to dinner with Mycroft with great cheer and addressed his meal with considerable appetite.  Mycroft also looked refreshed and was clearly entranced with his niece, extolling the perfection of every feature from her little nails to her tiny eyelashes.  When John revealed that they'd decided to name the baby after their sisters, Mycroft was so overcome with emotion that he had to excuse himself from the room for a few minutes in order to recover his customary aplomb.    
  
When he returned it was with a bottle of fine port and a pair of cigars, with which they toasted the health of both Sherlock and little Helen Sherrinford.  After finishing their cigars, they adjourned to the library where Mycroft savoured a rare book he'd found on the shelves, and John wrote out the birth announcements for the papers.  
  
John looked in on Sherlock again while on his way to bed and received the news from the nurse that Sherlock had partaken of a light supper of tea and gruel, and that the baby had nursed well, but that both were now asleep.  While he was pleased that Sherlock was getting rest after his ordeal, he couldn't help feeling disappointed that there was no opportunity to talk with his husband.  Over the past year he had come to enjoy their talks, and he felt oddly empty at the idea of going to bed without the chance to even wish Sherlock good-night.  The sleep he got that night was less restful than in the past, but he put it down to his impromptu nap.  
  
In the morning, Sherlock was clearly better although disgruntled that he was not allowed out of bed by Sister Camwell during his recovery.  John wondered how long it would be before boredom made his husband disregard medical instructions, although privately he sympathised with Sherlock.  Thinking about the native women he'd seen in his travels, many of whom had gone back to their usual activities shortly after giving birth, he wondered what it would hurt to let Sherlock get out of bed at least, to sit up in a chair before the fire.  But perhaps Omegas were different from the Betas he'd seen, and the month-nurse looked dark and spoke ominously of child-bed fever should Sherlock rise from his bed too soon.  John felt helpless again in his lack of knowledge about Omega childbirth.  He resolved to widen his education in that area at the earliest opportunity, but for now he had to bite back his ire and follow Sister Camwell's advice.  
  
The one area where he and Sherlock refused to give way was the issue of a wet-nurse.  Sherlock had flatly rejected the idea when the nurse brought it up, muttering about unhygienic practices and the inferior mental capacity of the women employed for such purposes.  There was no way, he said darkly, that he was going to risk the degradation of his daughter's intelligence by allow her to obtain sustenance from such sources.`  
  
John couldn't help grinning at his husband's scathing denouncement although he said, "Pretty sure it doesn't work like that, my dear.  Consumption of their breast milk won't actually cause brain cells to rot."  
  
Sherlock huffed.  "Best not take chances," he said, looking down at their daughter blissfully nursing.  "She will need all the intelligence at her disposal to deal with the general stupidity of the Alphas who are bound to surround her.  Present company excepted."  
  
John thought that might have been one of the nicest things Sherlock had ever said to him, although Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at him.    
  
The month-nurse was not happy, however, pursing her lips as she said to John, "My lord, I am afraid that you do not understand the effects of this decision.  While Lord Sherlock nurses, his body will not enter into oestrous."  
  
"Good," John said firmly.  "One of the matrons at St. Bart's recommended nursing for up to three years just for that reason, for the health of the mother."  
  
"New-fangled notions," Sister Camwell said darkly and looked at the watch pinned to her bodice. That was always a signal that she was about to clear the room of visitors.   John was beginning to have fantasies about taking a hammer to that watch.  "You'll be wanting an heir."  
  
"I have an heir," John said, trying not to snap at her for her insensitivity.   "If I never have another child, Sherry will be my heiress and her husband the next Earl."  
  
"John..." Sherlock said, and there was an odd note in his voice, an uncertainty that John didn't like to hear.    
  
John turned away from Camwell to give his husband a reassuring smile.  "The Work and your health are more important."  Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it, speechless for one of the few times that John had seen him, and John couldn't help grinning.  He said, just for Sherlock's ears, "Now I will be thrown out of the room for daring to cross Sister."  
  
"I believe it is time for Lord Sherlock to rest," Camwell said in her no-nonsense tone of voice.  
  
"See?" John said drolly and rolled his eyes, then dropped a kiss on both Sherlock and Sherry's foreheads.  "Rest well, love."    
  
As he opened the door to his adjoining room, he looked back at Sherlock and saw that he was holding the baby against his shoulder, absently patting her back to bring up wind and watching John with a puzzled look on his face.  Delighted at having mystified his all-too-perceptive husband, he gave him a wide smile before closing the door behind him.

* * *

That evening, Sherlock was allowed to sit up in bed for a few hours to receive visitors, and both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson took full advantage of the opportunity.  Mrs. Hudson cooed over the new addition to the family, admiring each feature of their little girl and that she was interviewing nursemaids for them.  Mycroft brought news of London in a letter from Lestrade, who informed them that if crimes along the waterfront continued to drop, he'd be posting North in two weeks.  
  
The next day, Harry brought her family over from Dalmahoy to pay a visit to mother and child.  Harry dutifully admired her newest niece and predicted that she would be a great beauty, with her dusky curls and bright blue eyes.  Georgia seemed torn between fascination with the tiny creature and discomfort with the physical results of marriage, which John hoped meant that she and Molly would take their romance slowly.  Archie was frankly bored with the new arrival, wanting to know when Sherlock would be able to resume their experiments, and he slipped off to the library as soon as he could.  Clara, of course, was much enamoured of little Sherry and approving of Sherlock's decision to nurse the baby himself.  
  
Janet, however, was far from approving when she descended on them at the end of the first week.  John was surprised by her visit as she had ignored them ever since her departure from Saughton, but she frostily informed him that _She_ at least knew what was owed to the Head of the family.  She'd dragged along her children, back under her roof since Christmas, but the three were too cowed by their mother to venture anything beyond a tentative smile at Sherlock. After a few minutes, Janet banished them to the care of Mrs. Turner while she settled in for "a proper visit", much to John's dismay.  
  
"Now, you'll be wanting to employ a wet nurse, of course," Janet said briskly, pulling off her gloves as she accepted a cup of tea from John.  "It's a pity that Mrs. Martin hasn't whelped recently.  She nursed all my babies and was properly respectful as well as close at hand, living at the Lodge."  
  
John nearly spit out his mouthful of tea and couldn't help giving Sherlock an incredulous look.  Had Janet really been that blind or stupid, or had she simply closed her eyes to the fact that Sarah Martin had been her husband's mistress?  There was an odd look on Sherlock's face, though, as if he'd been handed a piece to a puzzle but wasn't sure where it fit.  
  
"Mrs. Martin nursed them all?" he asked.  "How convenient that her own pregnancies coincided so well with yours."  
  
"Yes, we used to laugh about that," Janet said airily.  "George was her favourite, of course - she was forever bringing him treats, even after he was weaned.  He was quite greedy for her tarts, in particular; when he sickened, Nanny thought at first that it was overindulgence for he'd gobbled down four of them at once, the greedy thing!  But then it turned out to be a putrid fever, no doubt caused by his father allowing him to accompany him to the tenant cottages - filthy places, and several of them died that fall. 

"But Sarah Martin always kept a tidy house, and she adored all my babies.  She was quite distraught when they all came down with the fever the previous year."  She daubed her eyes with her handkerchief, although John couldn't see any evidence of tears.  "My poor darling babies!  I do hope that you never have to know such loss."  
  
"Mrs. Martin must have been of great comfort to you during that time," Sherlock said.  John was frankly surprised that his husband was encouraging Janet to wallow in her feigned grief and he frowned at Sherlock who ignored John.  
  
Janet quite blossomed under the attention from Sherlock, seeming to forget her resentment of him.  "Oh, yes!  She insisted on tending them during their illness as Nanny was taken by the fever as well, and I do believe that her devotion saved my darling George, and Margaret and the twins.  It quite broke her heart when little Jamie and Johnny were lost to us.  She sewed their winding sheets herself and laid them out, for poor Nanny was quite overcome."    
  
"Perhaps she would be able to recommend a wet-nurse for me," Sherlock said.  John opened his mouth to protest, stopped only by the sharp, speaking look Sherlock directed at him.    
  
Janet beamed at him and promised to speak to Mrs. Martin that very day, then rose to take her leave, and no doubt to gossip with her cronies.  John saw her to the door, bestowing a shiny new penny on his niece and nephews in honour of the new arrival, then returned to Sherlock's room to remonstrate with him.  
  
"Save your speeches, John," Sherlock said when John entered.  "I haven't changed my mind on the matter, although I will be curious as to Mrs. Martin's response."    
  
He shifted in the bed, wincing at the discomfort from lying there for so long.  John was immediately at his side, to try to make him comfortable, and he frowned at the state of the bed linens.  They had been changed immediately after the baby's birth but not since then, and with the heat of the room making Sherlock perspire, his gown and the linens smelled rank.   
  
"This can't be good for you," John said, ringing for the maids.  He had noted from his years on the Peninsula and in India that wounded men healed better in clean surroundings, and thought that his husband would recover better if he was more comfortable.

"Sister Camwell - " Sherlock began.  
  
"Has the afternoon off," John said, and resolved to take up the matter with Sister Camwell when she returned.  "As your personal physician, I am ordering a change of bed-linens at the least."  
  
"I would appreciate a new nightshirt," Sherlock admitted.  
  
"Then you shall have one."  
  
When the maids arrived, John sent one for Wiggins and another for clean bed-sheets.  Wiggins was only too happy to help Sherlock into a clean nightshirt and dressing gown, then they settled him in a chair by the fire with a shawl around his shoulders and feet to keep him from taking chill.  The maids quickly stripped the bed and remade it, bundling away the soiled linens.  
  
"Now, perhaps you'll tell me what all of that was about," John said once they were alone again.  
  
"I find it curious that your brother's former mistress was so involved in his current household, and that she was present during two significant calamities.  Do you know any more about the fever that beset the nursery?"  
  
John shook his head.  "I was away from England, and I don't recall Harry writing me about it.  And James was never much of a correspondent at the best of times - I think I had two letters from him in my entire life.  Clara might know more, but it's not unusual for illness to sweep through an entire family.  Clara lost her father and siblings to the influenza in Ireland, within days of each other, and it wasn't the only family to suffer such loss."  
  
"It is odd, however, that the Beta children should survive while the Alpha and Omega children perished," Sherlock pointed out.  "Alpha children are generally more resilient than others."  
  
"However, except for George, they were also the youngest, and sickness is harshest on the very young and the elderly," John said.   
  
Sherlock nodded.  "Jamie wasn't yet a year old, and Johnnie only two, while the twins would have been four and less likely to succumb." As John gave him a surprised look, Sherlock said drily, "I spent many hours staring at their grave markers last fall."  Then he frowned.  "It is peculiar that George should survive the puerile fever that claimed his siblings but then succumb to a similar fever less than a year later."  
  
John didn't like remembering the time the previous fall when Sherlock had brooded in the cemetery.  Even now, to his anxious eyes Sherlock appeared a pale imitation of his usual self.  His appetite had been greatly diminished during the past week, although considering the blandness of the diet Sister Camwell had proscribed for him, John wasn't surprised at that.  He also seemed listless, not rebelling against the nurse's strictures as John would have expected.  Only the fact that Sherlock wasn't running a fever had stopped John from sending for Dr. McCormick.

John _was_ pleased to see that Sherlock's face had taken on a small bit of colour which he attributed to his change of location and the diversion for his thoughts.  He decided that his husband should be allowed to sit up for a little longer, should he wish.  Sherlock was more than happy to agree to this, and when Wiggins appeared bearing his supper, Sherlock actually professed an appetite for his meal.  John kept his husband company while he ate, and he was pleased to watch as Sherlock ate nearly all of the stew that Cook had sent up, as well as a goodly portion of the pudding.    
  
Afterwards, Sherlock was clearly exhausted from his unaccustomed exertions, and after nursing the baby, he allowed John and Wiggins to settle him back into bed.    
  
"Sleep well, my dear," John murmured, brushing a kiss over his husband's forehead.  Sherlock's eyes were already nearly shut but he clutched at John's hand for a moment, murmuring something that might have been John's name before he drifted into sleep.   John tucked the sheets up closer around Sherlock, then glanced over at the chair where Wiggins had settled so as to be close at hand until the nurse returned.  Quietly, so as not to disturb his sleeping husband and child, he slipped out of the room.    
  
He spent the evening playing whist with Mycroft but his attention could not truly have been said to have been on the game, and he bore his brother-in-law's scathing assessment of his play with good humour.  It wasn't until later, when he was undressing for bed, that he recalled the conversation about his brother's lost children and wondered what it all meant.

* * *

After another week, when there was no sign that Sherlock might succumb to puerperal fever, he was emancipated from his bedchamber for several hours every afternoon.  However, he was strictly enjoined from conducting experiments and expected to spend this time reclining on a sofa in the library or their parlour, and John was not surprised that his husband chafed at these restrictions.  Sherlock railed daily at Sister Camwell, and John began counting the days to her departure with anticipation, although he expected that at any moment she would throw up her hands in disgust and storm out of the house.  

Sherlock's liberation meant that announcements could be sent to all of their acquaintances, which led to an increase in visitors.  Everyone John knew seemed to make their way to Saughton House to tender their congratulations and take a peek at the new baby. After a week of endless afternoon visits, John began to dread the sound of carriage wheels on the drive and the bang of the door knocker.    
  
Sherlock's temper, already pushed to the limit by his enforced rest and his clashes with Sister, began to visibly fray.  "Who in bloody hell are the Hope-Johnstone's?" he demanded of John one afternoon, holding up the calling card that had been brought up by the footman.  "Weren't they here the day before yesterday?"  
  
"No, that was the Johnstone-Hope's," John said helpfully.  "There's also the Hope-Weirs who visited on Monday, and they're all related to each other in some way through the 1st Earl of Hopetoun, who was also _my_ great-grandfather.  The current Earl - who is just a Hope, thank Christ - visited us yesterday.  He's the one who wants me to stand for Lord-Lieutenant of Linlithgowshire after him, remember?"  
  
Sherlock gave him a disfavourable look.  "You have a great deal too many relations."  
  
John sighed.  "I've been saying that for years."  
  
The next day came a more welcome - although surprising - visitor, as well as the new Earl of Morton.  George Douglas was a distant cousin of John's but as they had gone to boarding school together they were well-known to each other.  John had also served with the Earl's father, Lt. Colonel John Douglas, in the Peninsular War, and he had fond memories of the man.  However, they had something else in common in that George had unexpectedly inherited the title of Morton upon the untimely death of his cousin, the previous Earl, at nearly the same time that John had come into the Saughton earldom.  Morton was also the new father of a daughter, who had remained at home with her mother, although he was accompanied by his young son, Sholto John Douglas - and by John's old commander, Major James Sholto.    
  
John shook hands gladly with the Major, saying, "I am surprised to see you so far away from London!  What brings you to Scotland?"  
  
"Family business, both my own and my cousin's," the Major replied, gesturing at Morton.  "Young Sholto's my godson and named for my father."  
  
John was surprised; he'd never known that there was a distant connection between himself and the Major, but then, Major Sholto had always been a very private man and was more than fifteen years his senior.  Sholto had only mentioned once that he'd grown up following the drum as his father and grandfather had both been army officers.  He wondered at the connection between Sholto and Morton, and what business had brought the reclusive man so far from his refuge in Norwood.

Morton's party were the only guests that afternoon so John invited them to remain for tea as he escorted them up to the library where Sherlock had taken refuge for the day. The Earl and Major Sholto duly admired John's daughter and expressed their congratulations to Sherlock on his safe delivery.  Morton's son, at the lofty age of four, was unimpressed by his little cousin, finding the tartlets served with tea more deserving of his admiration, and was soon curled up an armchair with a book and two of the precious pastries. 

Sherlock was delighted to discover that Morton had been a schoolmate of John's and immediately began questioning him about John's misspent youth.  The Earl didn't seem to mind in the least, readily sharing his remembrances of school and "wee Johnny", as he'd been called.  John laughingly protested but not too much, for Sherlock was more animated that John had seen him for weeks.  When Sherlock devoured a second slice of pound cake liberally covered with jam, John silently blessed his cousin for his visit.

Mycroft joined them shortly after the arrival of the tea tray, and talk turned to the King's planned visit in the Fall and of the Caledonian Society, of which Morton was a leading member.  Mycroft was intensely interested in the question of Scottish nationality while Sherlock was amused by the sudden upsurge of interest in all things Scottish.  He advocated that John have himself fitted for a kilt, and when Morton sided with him, John had no choice but to surrender.  John only hoped that he didn't end up looking like an idiot.

Throughout the visit, Major Sholto had been quiet, listening but adding little to the conversation.  John had the feeling that something was troubling the man and that this was partially the reason he'd accompanied his cousin on this social call, but he hadn't had an opportunity to draw the Major aside for a private conversation - yet.

As the maid came to clear the tea tray, Sister Camwell appeared in the library and announced that it was time for Lord Sherlock to retire for the afternoon.  Sherlock glowered at her and John would have protested for Sherlock didn't appear tired, but Morton readily rose to take his leave of them, eager to return to his own wife's bedside.  John sent for their carriage and Mycroft walked Morton out, the two men still discussing politics, but the Major paused for a moment at Sherlock's side. 

"Lord Sherlock," he said.  "I wonder if I might seek your advice about a troubling matter.  Not today - I don't wish to delay Morton's return to his family - but perhaps I could ride over tomorrow and place the details of the case before you?  If your health permits, of course," he added, glancing over at John.  
  
"I am in excellent health," Sherlock asserted, casting a glare over at Sister Camwell, who looked unimpressed by his words.  
  
"I am certain that Sherlock would welcome the chance to flex his deductive muscles," John added with a smile.  "Is it this family business you've come North about?"

Major Sholto nodded.  "It concerns my uncle, Sir Bartholomew Sholto, and some troubling messages that he's received, but I'll tell you more of that when I return - and bring the documents with me, if I may." 

Sherlock readily agreed to this, and John could tell that he was already piecing together deductions based on Sholto's words and looks.  
  
"Till tomorrow, then," Sholto said, shaking hands with both of them before hurrying down to join his cousin.

"A mystery, John!" Sherlock said, his face alight with glee.  "At last!"

John was delighted to see Sherlock's excitement, and even the nurse's grim warnings about over-excitement couldn't dampen his enthusiasm about getting back to the Work.

* * *

However, Major Sholto didn't return to see them the next day.  Instead they received a note from him with the news that Sir Bartholomew had been murdered sometime during the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on the fun of childbirth and recovery during the 1800s, check out [The Jane Austen site](http://www.janeausten.co.uk/developements-in-childbirth-in-regency-and-victorian-england/) and [this timeline of developments in regard to pregnancy and childbirth](http://www.elenagreene.com/childbirth.html). Aren't you glad we live in more modern times?
> 
> The Scottish gentry did have a very specific naming pattern, which makes them dream for genealogists, and the Watsons and their kin really did follow it. [Here's a list of the patterns ](http://www.arrick.com/family/scottishnaming.html). However, John and Sherlock will be a little more independent, so you won't be able to predict their future children's names.
> 
> Helen Watson, born on Feb 23, 1822, was the youngest child (of 9) of James Watson, the last Chief of Clan Watson (in our story, John's older brother). So of course I knew from the outset that she would be John and Sherlock's first child in this story. 
> 
> Helen was also the only offspring to live long enough to marry and produce a child. She married the 19th Earl of Morton, Sholto John Douglas (who makes a brief appearance in this chapter), and had one child, a son named Sholto George Watson Douglas, from whom the current Earl is descended. The coincidence of the 'Sholto" name aligned with Watson of Saughton was intriguing and of course I had to weave that into my story.


	44. Part IV: Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone wants the Sholto family dead. Who? And why? Sherlock tries to solve the mystery while John works to keep the Major alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay - this mystery was a tough one to incorporate. I had already put the Agra portion in "Watson's War" and I thought about giving the events in BBC's "A Sign of Three" a miss, and then just a quick summary like some of the other mysteries, but Sholto kept insisting on getting the full treatment. And when Sholto wants something...
> 
> Events in this chapter refer to [Chapter Nine of Watson's War](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325806/chapters/2953870) and to the [Sholto chapter of "Three Continents Watson"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2330933/chapters/6331904). It's not necessary to read either, but it might give some background for the story.
> 
> EDITED to fix references to Tonga as it was rightly pointed out to me that Indonesia is the modern name for the area. If you are interested, here is the [Wikipedia entry ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iban_people) on them.

Sherlock tossed aside the message from Sholto and rose from the settee, striding purposefully toward his bedchamber.  Over his shoulder he called, "Get dressed, John!  We are going to Pondicherry House and there is no time to be lost!  Already I suspect that the best evidence will have been obliterated."  
  
John was willing and sent Cartwright ahead with a message to let Sholto know of their impending visit.  However, he felt obligated to protest as he followed Sherlock into his bedroom where he found his husband tossing aside the contents of his dresser.  "I'm not certain that you should make this journey, Sherlock.  It's only been four weeks.  And what about Helen?"  
  
Sherlock riffled through the drawers, scowling as he failed to find what he wanted.  "I just nursed her; she will be fine for a few hours.  I don't expect this to take long, and an hour's ride by carriage is well within my abilities."  He turned to his wardrobe and threw open the doors, scowling and tossing garments aside.   "Wiggins!" he shouted.  
  
Wiggins popped his head around the corner of the doorway.  "You bellowed, m'lord?"  
  
"Where are my trousers?" Sherlock demanded.  "Smalls, buckskins - I'll even take my Court pantaloons."  He turned on Wiggins, scowling.  "You've hidden them."  
  
Wiggins turned to John.  "Lovely, how he kens that, innit?" he said admiringly.  "They're safe, m'lord.  Thought you less likely to scarper without them."  
  
Sherlock scowled.  "Well, I need them back!  I cannot go on an investigation wearing a dressing gown!"  
  
John couldn't help grinning.  "For the right case, you'd go out in a bedsheet."  
  
"You'll not be going anywhere, except back to your bed," Nurse Camwell said sharply from behind Wiggins.  She strode across the room to Sherlock, grasping his wrist to take his pulse.  "Your heartbeat is too fast and your skin is too warm.  Into bed with you!"  
  
Sherlock glared at her.  "I am _not_ feverish, and if my pulse is fast it's because I'm moving for the first time in weeks!  I do not need to go to bed!"  
  
"I don't see the harm in Sherlock taking a little exercise," John said hastily, before the two could get into a shouting match again.  "The weather is mild and his health is good.  I will be there to monitor his activity, and I _am_ a doctor."  
  
Sherlock looked triumphant at that and turned to Wiggins as he shed his dressing gown. "My buckskin breeches, Wiggins, if you will.  There is a murder to investigate!"  
  
Wiggins shrugged and went over the bed, pulling a small trunk out from underneath it and producing the requested breeches.  
  
Nurse Camwell turned her back on John, put her hands on her hips, and glared at Sherlock.  "There'll be none of that nonsense, my lord. Your place is here, with your child and your household, _not_ chasing after criminals!"  
  
"Now wait a minute," John said, annoyed that she had ignored his reassurances.  "I believe that is for _me_ to say, and I don't have a problem with Lord Sherlock investigating crimes.  He happens to be _brilliant_ at it."  
  
"That's as it may be, my lord," Camwell said sternly, turning back to John.  "An Omega's constitution is not suited to such activities, especially once they have given birth.  Their health is delicate and their energy should be reserved for raising children - particularly as Lord Sherlock has chosen to continue nursing your daughter, against my advice."  
  
John drew in a sharp breath and clenched his fists, then tilted up his chin.  "Is that so?"  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock freeze in the middle of pulling his buckskins on under his nightshirt.  Wiggins just sighed and walked out of the room, shaking his head.  
  
"Indeed, my lord," Camwell said, warming to her subject and ignoring the danger signs.  "Omegas are, as a rule, physically smaller and weaker than Alphas or Betas.  Their brains are much lighter, and they are in every way unfitted for the same amount of bodily or mental labour that Alphas are able to undertake."  
  
"Right," John said flatly, holding his arms tightly at his side to keep from punching her.  "That's you done.  Pack your bags and leave.  Your services are no longer required, now or in the future."  
  
Nurse Camwell gaped at him.  "I - I don't understand."  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock murmured, _sotto voce_.  

"Omegas are just as capable as Alphas or Betas - more so, in Sherlock's case," John told her.  "It's narrow-minded thinking like yours that keeps them from obtaining the right to determine their own futures."  
  
"But - I - " Camwell stammered.  
  
Wiggins returned to the room, accompanied by one of the maids.  "Give it up, luv," he said to Camwell.  "Alice'll help you pack."  
  
With a little snarl of fury, Camwell stormed out of the room.  John unclenched his fists and drew in a deep breath, then looked around.  Sherlock was standing stock-still, his hands still on the fastenings of his breeches and his eyes fixed on John with shock.  
  
"Um," John said, a little embarrassed that he'd let his anger take charge.  "Looks like we'll need a nursery maid sooner than we thought."  
  
"I believe that Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner have been narrowing down candidates but yes, now that Nurse Camwell has departed, the need is more immediate."  Sherlock gave John a sidelong look before turning his attention to fastening the drop-front of his breeches.  "That, er ... thing that you, er, that you just did.  With Camwell."  He cleared his throat.  "That was...good."  
  
John cocked his head, looking at Sherlock.  "Yeah?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "Not that I need a white knight to come charging to my aid in every instance."  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"Still, it's...nice...to know that you think that.  About Omegas.  And me."  
  
John crossed to Sherlock and took his hand, saying earnestly, "Of course I think that.  Of course I do.  You're incredible.  Brilliant.  Amazing.  The best thing to ever happen to me."  He squeezed Sherlock's hand.  "But even if you were an ordinary, average Omega, you have the right to decide what is best for yourself."  
  
Sherlock looked down at their joined hands.  "Not many Alphas would say that."  
  
"More than you might think," John said with a little shrug.  "Just afraid to say it.  We're not raised to view Omegas or even Beta females in that light.  But as we change the laws, those old views will change.  I hope."  
  
Sherlock nodded, then kissed John's cheek and turned back to his wardrobe to select a shirt.  John flushed and fled into his own room to change for their journey.

 

* * *

 A short while later, John handed Sherlock up into the carriage as they set out for Queensferry.  While Sherlock grumbled about having to wear his maternity waistcoat as his abdomen had not yet returned to its pre-pregnancy size, he was in noticeably cheerful spirits.  Traffic along Queensferry Road was light as the morning was not far advanced, and they travelled the seven miles in good time.  Leaving the coachman to stable the horses against their return, they boarded the ferry to cross the Firth of Forth, and John was pleased to find that Sholto had sent a carriage to meet them on the other side, with Cartwright perched in the Tiger's seat.    
  
Within a short period of time, they reached the gates of Pondicherry House, just off Hope Street in Inverkeithing.  The gates were closed, but as they drove up an elderly man came out to open them.  The drive offered a clear view of the house as they approached, and John thought it looked like an odd sort of place.  It was similar to Major Sholto's place in Norbury, only somehow more isolated and grim.  He wondered at the security, both at Sholto's place and here, and thought about what the Major had said the previous day.  Was it just a family trait, this desire for privacy, or was it something more?   
  
As they alighted from the carriage, the door to the house was thrown open by a Hindu servant, clad in a yellow turban and loose white clothing.  The sight of this surprised John so much that he paused mid-stride.  What on earth was this man doing here, in Scotland?    
  
"I  am Lal Chowdar.  The sahib awaits you in the parlour," the man said, bowing them into the house.  
  
They followed the man down a narrow and ill-lit passageway, the carpet beneath their feet threadbare and dusty.  At the end of the hallway, the servant threw open the door and bowed them into the room, closing the door behind them.  John halted on the threshold of the room and stared around in amazement.  
  
While the outer hallway had shown signs of deterioration and neglect, this room was the complete opposite.  The windows were hung with fine velvet curtains over sheer silk threaded with gold in fantastical designs.  The walls were covered with richly mounted paintings in various motifs, mostly Indian.   A great tiger-skin rug lay before a large fireplace, with fire-dogs made of intricately worked iron.   A chandelier with dozens of crystal drops and nearly as many candles was suspended in the centre of the room, over a large table with heavily carved legs.  The floor was of fine mahogany, highly polished, and covered by a carpet so thick and soft that John's feet sank into it as he walked across the room.  A large hookah held pride-of-place on a table near the fireplace, surrounded by a riot of colourful cushions.   If it weren't for the untidy desk in the corner, with papers spilt onto the floor, the room would have looked like a museum.  The effect was both overpowering and uncomfortable.  
  
There was a body laid out on the ornate table, and John went to it.  The dead man was elderly, with a very high forehead accentuated by a bald, shining scalp surrounded by bright red hair.  Nature had given him a large lower lip which was set in a horrible smile, revealing crooked and yellowed teeth.  John studied the unnatural set of the dead man's features, that fixed and unnatural grin, and hazarded a guess that some strychnine-like substance had been the cause of death.  
  
Sherlock joined him and circled the table, studying the dead man with interest while John looked around the room.  There was a chair drawn up before the fire and it was occupied by a familiar figure. 

He walked over to it.  "May I offer our condolences, Major Sholto?" 

Sholto turned his head to meet his eyes, and John was surprised by how haggard the man looked.    
  
"James!" he said, shocked.  "What's happened?"  
  
"Murder," Sholto said quietly.  "First my uncle, and quite possibly myself next."

* * *

They retired to another room, a study that was less ostentatiously furnished with what were obviously discards but, to John's mind, was far more comfortable.   The servant brought them tea and then withdrew and, as Sholto appeared to have withdrawn into himself, John set about pouring it out and distributing the cups.  He felt Sherlock's eyes on him as he prepared Sholto's cup without asking how he took it but didn't feel the need to explain.  
  
"Major Sholto?" Sherlock said into the silence, ignoring the cup John set down next to him.  "When we spoke yesterday, you said that an incident had troubled you.  Is that related to your uncle's death?  Can you tell us what happened?"  
  
Sholto sighed and picked up his teacup, taking a sip before setting it back down.  "It involves my late uncle, and the reason that I am here in Scotland.  My uncle - Bartholomew Sholto by name - suffered a nervous attack after receiving a letter last December, and his man of business sent for me since I am his nearest relation."  
  
"The contents of the letter?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"No one knows, for he burnt it as soon as he revived and refused to breathe a word about it.  Clearly it was a threat of some sort, one that frightened him nearly to death.  And he has refused to disclose anything of the matter during the month that I've been here.  I could see that he was terrified, of course.  Over the past few months he had refused to even allow tradesmen to enter the grounds, and dismissed all the servants except for Lal Chowdar, the Hindu who let you in, and McAndrews, the gatekeeper who's been with the family forever."  
  
"Was his isolation unusual?"  
  
Sholto shrugged.  "Not entirely. My uncle was an unsociable sort of fellow of indifferent health, with a grasping nature - which is why there the house is in such disrepair.  He never married and had spent the entirety of his life on this estate, which he inherited from my grandfather.  As far as I know, he hasn't set foot off the property in forty years."  
  
"Were you a regular visitor here?"  
  
Sholto shook his head.  "I haven't been in this house above four times in my life, the last being when my grandfather was on his deathbed.  My father was Bartholomew's twin, the younger of them, and they quarrelled violently upon Grandfather's death.  Father cut off all ties with him and that was the last time I was in this house, until now.  And a most unpleasant visit it has been, for my uncle spends much of his time in the parlour which you just saw, and refused to confide his troubles to me.  I was about to return to my own home in London - had made up my mind to do so when I spoke to you yesterday.  I made one more effort when I returned last night, but my uncle was shut up in there and refused to answer the door.  Lal Chowdar became worried when Uncle didn't sleep in his bed last night and forced the door, only to find my uncle dead in his chair.  A paper, containing this address and the address of my house in London, was lying near the window. This note was lying on the floor by the desk, amid the contents of the drawers which had been scattered."  
  
Sholto handed Sherlock a torn piece of paper with the words "the sign of the four" scrawled across it.  Sherlock examined it for a moment before passing it to John.  He stared at it for a moment, frowning as something tickled at the back of his mind.  
  
"Do you have any idea what it means?" Sherlock asked Sholto.  
  
"No - except..."  Major Sholto paused.  "John will remember the events around the death of Captain Morstan, in Agra, India.  When he died, he said the words 'the sign of three'.  Curiously similar, but I have no idea how it could be related.  Uncle Bartholomew has never been to India."  
  
"Then why the furnishings in the parlour and the Hindu servant?" John asked.  
  
"The furnishings belonged to my grandfather, and Lal Chowder was the son of my grandfather's manservant.  He was in India in his youth."  He paused.  "Perhaps it will be of some help for me to tell you the history of my family and this house."  He took a sip of his tea to wet his throat and then began.  
  
"As I told John yesterday, my family is a junior branch of Douglas of Morton.  Robert, the younger son of the 13th Earl, entered into an irregular marriage which produced a son, John  - my grandfather.  Morton refused to allow the child the Douglas name so instead he was given the surname of 'Sholto', which was reputed to be the Christian name of the first Douglas.  Robert was in the Guards, and when he died at the Battle of Fontenoy, Robert's brother took young John into his household and raised him with his own children.  He purchased a commission for him with the army of the East India Company, which he held for fifteen years.  He rose to the rank of Colonel and was well-respected by his men and the natives.  He was stationed first in Pondicherry and then Ahmedabad, where he was wounded in 1753 in one of the conflicts with the Marantha Empire.   He returned to England, built Pondicherry Lodge in Norbury, and purchased this estate which he renamed Pondicherry House.  He married his cousin, Frances, who gave him twin sons before she died giving birth to a still-born daughter.  He died in 1783, here in this house."  
  
Sherlock absorbed this information.  "Did he have any enemies?"  
  
"None that I know about.  I was only six when he died, but as I recall he was a genial and generous man."  
  
"What about litigation against the estate?  Any contention for the house or lands?"  
  
The Major shook his head.  "While he was alive, this house was well-kept and Grandfather received many visitors, but as you can see, it's a small property on marshy grounds with little to recommend it.  Even my father had no interest in the estate; he took the London house where I live now."  
  
"What about your uncle?  Anyone with a personal quarrel with him?"  
  
"Only everyone he has ever met," Sholto said.    
  
"This fortune that your grandfather came home with," Sherlock asked.  "What was its source?  Surely not a major's army pay?"  
  
"I don't know.  My father refused to speak about anything to do with the estate, and Uncle Bartholomew was reticent on the subject.  From what I understand, my grandfather became great friends with the high-caste Hindus while in India, receiving many gifts from them.  As you can see, the house is stuffed full of the strange and curious objects he brought back with him.  But surely...it's been seventy years since my grandfather returned from India.  If there was someone with a claim to whatever treasure he brought back, they must be long since dead or in their dotage."  
  
"It is a mystery indeed," Sherlock said, "and one that I cannot solve without more information.  Have I your leave to look through your uncle's papers?  I saw that they were scattered across his desk."  
  
Sholto nodded.  "Which is odd, as he was usually fastidious with his papers."    
  
Before he could say anything more, there was a knock on the door and the servant opened it.  
  
"Your pardon, sahib and sirs, but these gentlemen insisted on seeing you."  
  
The first man to enter the room was a stout, portly man with a red-face and the unmistakable air of an instrument of the law, more specifically the sheriff of this area of Fife, by the name of Athelney Jones, as he was quick to tell them.  He was followed by two men bearing the uniform of local constables, and the coroner, making the small room feel uncomfortably full.  
  
"What's all this?" Jones demanded.  "I was informed that there was a dead man on the premises, murdered - although I'll be the judge of that.  Who are all of you?  Damn if this place isn't as full as a rabbit-warren!"  
  
Sholto rose.  "I am Major James Sholto, late of the 66th Foot.  This is my cousin, the Earl of Saughton, and his husband, Lord Sherlock.  The deceased is my uncle, Sir Bartholomew Sholto, the owner of Pondicherry House.  He is laid out in the parlour, if you would care to see."  
  
"My coroner will do that," Jones said, gesturing to one of the man behind him, and the servant led him back out into the hallway.  Jones then turned his small, keen eyes on Sherlock.  "Lord Sherlock Holmes, is it?  We've heard of you, even up here. Holmes, the Theorist!  Stanley Hopkins was highly complementary of you at the last Assizes, said you set him on the right track with the Black Peter business, although you'll own that it was more by good luck than good guidance."  
  
"It was a piece of very simple reasoning," Sherlock replied shortly.  
  
"Oh, come now, come!  Never be ashamed to own up," Jones said indulgently, as one might talk to a child.  "But as to this - a bad business.  What do you _theorize_ that he died of?"  
  
"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to _theorize_ over," Sherlock said drily.  "Not when I have a doctor at my side."  He turned to John.  "Lord Saughton, what are your conclusions?"  
  
"Death was from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," John replied.  "A strychnine-like substance, I believe."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "That was what occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of his face."  
  
"And how do you believe that such poison - if that's what it was - was administered?" Jones asked.  
  
"You will note that there is a thorn lodged behind the ear of the deceased man, the means by which the poison was delivered."  
  
Jones smiled indulgently.  "Now, that's rather fanciful, isn't it?  A poisoned thorn?  And the man in a room with all the doors and windows locked, so I am given to understand.  Dear me!  Well, I have a theory myself.  Major Sholto, if you will just step outside with the constable?"    
  
Once they had left the room, Jones turned back to John and Sherlock.  "What do you think of _this_ theory, Lord Sherlock?  Sir Bartholomew was a tight man, reclusive, allowing no visitors - except for family, of course.  Major Sholto has been staying here for several weeks and is no doubt the heir to the deceased.  The Major was also the last to speak with Sir Bartholomew, yesterday afternoon before he left the house for several hours."  
  
John gave the man an incredulous look.  "You think Major Sholto poisoned his uncle before going off to have tea at my house?"  
  
"Seems a cool character," Jones said.  "Military man, used to death and danger.  Strong enough to overpower his elderly uncle and administer the poison."  
  
"After which the dead man very conveniently got up and locked the door on the inside," Sherlock said sarcastically.  
  
Jones shrugged.  "The poison might have taken a while to work - enough time for him to lock the door behind his nephew.  Let us apply common sense to the matter.  Major Sholto was with his uncle yesterday afternoon.  They quarrelled.  None of the staff saw Sir Bartholomew alive after the Major left.  And Major Sholto is to inherit this pretty little property and all the bits and bobs inside.  You see that I am weaving my web round the Major, and the net closes in on him."  
  
"What about the note left behind?" Sherlock demanded, showing him the paper.  
  
"A blind, to throw us off the scent.  Who knows how long that's been sitting about the place?"  Jones strode out into the hallway and up to Sholto.  "Major James Sholto, I arrest you in the King's name, on the charge of being concerned in the death of your uncle."  
  
Major Sholto's face went even paler than before, making the burns on the side of his face stand out even starker.  He cast a despairing look at John.  
  
"Don't trouble yourself about this matter, Major," Sherlock said.  "I believe that I can clear you of the charge."  
  
"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist!" snapped Jones.  "You might find it harder to disprove a murder charge than to find a peer's gee-gaws and bobbles."  Turning to the other constable he said, "Take the servant into custody as well - I'll warrant he is involved in the matter.  And secure the premises against gawkers," he added with a telling look at John and Sherlock.  
  
A few minutes later, they found themselves standing outside the gates while Cartwright ran to the nearest inn to secure a carriage to take them to the ferry.  While they waited, Sherlock muttered as he paced the length of the exterior wall, staring intently at the ground and then up at the top, stopping only when their carriage arrived.  He settled next to John with a puzzled expression on his face.  
  
"This case just keeps getting more involved," Sherlock said.  
  
"You have found something, then?  Something that will exonerate Major Sholto?" John asked him, unable to hide his concern for his friend.  
  
"There is evidence that two different parties have explored the area along the walls.  The first, a single man, is of a patient nature for he has maintained a post in the copse to the west of the wall where he could watch the comings and goings through the gate.  He was studying the place, getting to know the daily patterns.  He is not a local, for his prints show that his footwear is not common to England.    
  
"The other party consists of two people, one with a bad leg and the other of shorter than average height, about five feet or a little under.  They spent a short time hiding in the shelter near the gatekeeper's lodge yesterday before slipping inside, probably while the gatekeeper was napping or otherwise occupied.  They are more than likely the murderers, although I can't rule out the possibility that the other man was their scout."  
  
"So what do we do next?"  
  
"Next, we return home."  John was surprised at that answer and it must have shown on his face, for Sherlock grimaced.  "There is nothing more we can do for now.  And I hope that Helen will be interested in nursing, for I am distinctly uncomfortable."  
  
John couldn't help blushing at that.  Fortunately, they had arrived at the ferry so he allowed the subject to drop.

* * *

Helen was as delighted to see Sherlock as he was to be with her; as Mycroft had wryly commented, she was as unhappy at being thwarted in her desires as his brother was.  John moved getting a nursemaid to the top of his list, preferably a spirited one who wouldn't mind accompanying them on cases, and went to speak with Mrs. Turner while Sherlock fed their daughter and rested after their trip.    
  
After arranging to interview possible nursemaids the next morning, John spent an hour in his office trying to finish up the estate records before their return to London, but found himself staring out of the window, thinking about Major Sholto sitting in a cell, accused of a crime that he couldn't have committed.  He was relieved to have his attention captured by the sight of a carriage coming up the Long Drive and walked out to meet it.  To his delight, it was Greg Lestrade, who told him that he'd arrived by the Royal Mail that morning.

"Would have been here two days ago, but the roads were so bad from the rains that the blasted coach went off the side of the road just outside York," he said ruefully.  "Some of the passengers caught a conveyance straight away, but my luck was out and I had to wait for a seat on the next coach along.  And to top it off, my bag went missing - I haven't had a clean shirt or neck-cloth for nearly two days!"

As Mycroft had arrived by then, he bore his husband off to their room for a much-needed bath and shave, as well as a change of clothes.  John went down to the Housekeeper's room to inform Mrs. Turner that there'd be another person sitting down to dinner, then up to the library where Sherlock was napping to let him know about the arrival of his brother-in-law.  Sherlock was inclined to be a trifle groggy from his short rest, but by the time Lestrade appeared in the library, he was recovered enough to demand the news of London from the man.

"And hello to you, too, Sherlock," Lestrade laughed, coming forward to shake his brother-in-law's hand.  "London gets by tolerably in your absence, and the criminals along the waterfront are stupid enough that even I can catch them.  That's not to say that we won't be happy to see you back in the city, because we will.  Even Donovan has taken to cursing your name in a somewhat wistful tone of voice."

John laughed and Sherlock scoffed at that, but John could see that his husband was pleased to be missed.  Helen deigned to be lifted from her cradle for Lestrade to admire her, which he did with great sincerity, to the satisfaction of both of her parents.  He foretold a bevy of broken-hearted suitors in her future before surrendering her to the arms of her fond Uncle Mycroft in order to accept a glass of sherry from John.  Sherlock then entertained them with a wildly exaggerated account of the banishment of Nurse Camwell by John, which had even Mycroft chuckling, although he shook his head at the foolishness of dismissing the month-nurse.

"I am quite well," Sherlock said dismissively.  "Admit that you never liked her, either, Mycroft!  No, we are much better without her interference - and the christening is only a week away, after which is Easter and our return to London!"

They sat down to dinner at unfashionably early country hours which Lestrade declared suited him to the ground as he hadn't had a decent bite of food since leaving London.  "The taprooms are so crowded and the coach stops so brief that you have only time to pay for the privilege of eating a single bite before you're called back to the coach!" Lestrade complained.

Turner had just removed the first course when the sound of an approaching horseman caught John's attention.  A few minutes later, there was a cheerful hallo from the front foyer and a voice calling out for "permission to come aboard".

"Charlie!" John exclaimed, tossing down his serviette and making his way to the front of the house where his elder brother was shedding his overcoat and hat to the footman.  Although his face was a little roughened by the sea and the sun of the West Indies, he looked as hale and hearty as John had ever seen him.  "Bless my soul!  What are you doing here?"

"Just blew in from Barbados - transporting the former governor to Gibraltar for his new post.  But look at you, John!" Charlie said, a grin on his face.  "A married man, with a family!"

"You must come and meet them - have you dined yet?  No, don't worry about changing for dinner, none of us mind if you sit down in your dirt."  John led the way into the dining room.  "Sherlock, I'd like you to meet my brother, Captain Charles Watson.  Charlie, this is my husband, Sherlock, his brother, Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft's husband, Gregory Lestrade."  
  
Charlie shook hands all around and sat down at the place that Turner had already set, washing his hands in a basin that the second footman held for him.  The second course was laid while Charlie applied himself to the soup set before him with the ready appetite of a military man who knows not where his next meal comes from. 

"When did you arrive?" John asked, serving himself from the beef ragout placed before him.  "Are you to remain here for long?"  
  
"I arrived nearly a week ago, but I've been beset by all the business of securing a berth for my ship while she undergoes scraping and repainting.  I've been granted a month's leave, then I'm off to ply the waters of the Mediterranean again.  And I'm glad to be shot of the West Indies, even for Malta and its plagues!"

Mycroft leaned forward at that, asking Charlie knowledgeable questions about the islands, in particular their harbours and coastlines.  Charlie was more than happy to answer his questions, having a sharp eye for details and an inherited gift for navigation and sailing.  Sherlock interrupted with questions about the most recent uprisings and crimes, which the London newspapers had reported in lurid detail, and Charlie cheerfully curdled their blood with the stories that he had heard first-hand.

By the time the party withdrew to the library for brandy and cigars, the topic had turned to the returning royal governor and the various other passengers.  "A planter's son, returning to England with a lot less airs than he'd arrived with," Charlie said, "and the widow of the commander of the Bahamas, with her two children, on their way to Nice.  Had the devil of a time keeping the boy out of the rigging.  Oh, and I took on a diplomatic party from India at Gibraltar, attended by their own Hindu priests!  Had to give up my cabin for them and bunk with my First Lieutenant from there to Southampton.  Oddly enough, the priests remained on board till we got to Leith.  Wouldn't think they'd find anything of interest here in Scotland."

John and Sherlock shared a significant look and Lestrade said, "What?  Are you on the trail of another mystery?"

"A murder," John replied.  "The uncle of my previous commander, Major Sholto.  He was at my wedding."

Lestrade nodded, remembering.  "And the presence of these priests means something to you?"

"The murdered man's father spent his younger years in India," Sherlock said.  "There's a possibility that he brought something back that his son was later murdered over."

"And you think the priests killed him?" Charlie asked.

"Unlikely," Mycroft said.  "Hinduism prescribes values such as compassion and refraining from injuring all living beings, and priests would be even less likely to commit such a deliberate act. 

"I believe they were watching the house for several days, though I don't know for what reason, and may have seen the intruders.  The murderer is English, with a bad leg that causes him to limp.  He has a companion, no taller than five feet - "

Lestrade sat forward with a start.  "Hang on!  There were two people from the Dutch East Indies travelling on the stage with me," Lestrade volunteered.  "Jonathan Small and his native wife, and she was short.  The other passengers joked about it - 'Small and his small wife'.  They disappeared at York when the Mail broke down, never saw them again."  
  
"Wife!" Sherlock said, pushing back his chair and standing up.  He paced back and forth across the room.  "Wife!  Of course!  It's always something!"  
  
"You think that this man might have done it?" Charlie asked.  "Why?  Did he know the murdered man?"  
  
"I don't see how he could have," Sherlock said, continuing to pace.  "Bartholomew Sholto never left England and hasn't set foot outside of his house for forty years.  How old would you say that this Jonathan Small is?" he asked Lestrade.  
  
Lestrade shrugged.  "Hard to tell, his face was considerably weathered and he was in pain from his leg, but I'd say that he's not yet forty."  
  
"So it's unlikely that he knew Bartholomew Sholto, and he couldn't have met the elder Colonel John Sholto when he was in India seventy years ago," Sherlock said.  
  
John frowned.  There was something about the name of Small that struck a chord.  "One moment," he said, rising from the sofa.  He went to his office, pulling his war journals out of the bottom drawer.  He turned to the years he'd spent in India and quickly scanned the pages, then made a triumphant sound.  Taking the journal with him, he returned to the library.  
  
"I thought that name sounded familiar," he said.  "Jonathan Small was involved in a robbery at Agra - the same one that Major Sholto mentioned, during which a British captain died.  Major Sholto was the one who discovered the plot and on his testimony Small was sent to prison."  
  
"But why seek out and murder Sholto's uncle?" Charlie asked.  "Unless they meant to kill the Major instead?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "While Small may be seeking revenge on the entire Sholto family, Bartholomew was the one who received the original letter, months before his nephew came to stay with him.  Why would they seek out the elder Sholto on the off-chance that they would find the younger?  And why wait to strike until the Major was gone?  It is clear from the footprints that Small was there, but to what purpose?  And did they commit the murder, or was that done by the man who'd been watching the house for the past few days?"  
  
Sherlock sighed and sat down in his chair again.  "There is nothing for it.  We will have to visit Pondicherry House again tomorrow, to look through Bartholomew Sholto's papers, and then see if we can talk to the Major in jail.  Perhaps he knows something more about this Jonathan Small."

 

* * *

 

Their domestic issue was solved the following morning with the arrival of a young woman whom Mrs. Turner introduced as Annie Harrison.   Annie had been the under-nursery-maid for the household where the Turners had been employed, out of work now that her employers had moved to India.  John liked her cheerful face while Sherlock was of the opinion that her character was good and her nature sanguine enough to handle the madness that was their lives.  And as Helen accepted her with a blink and a yawn, Annie was hired on the spot.  
  
Accompanied by Annie and Helen, they set off again for Inverkeithing.  Lestrade chose to go with them in case they needed a mediator with the Fife constabulary, while Mycroft and Charlie went to Edinburgh's waterfront to try to trace the Hindu priests.  John insisted that they pause for luncheon at the Royal Inn in High Street and then, leaving Annie and the baby snug in the private parlour there, the three men made their way to Pondicherry House.  
  
The gatehouse was empty and Sherlock gave as his opinion that Athelaney Jones had arrested the gatekeeper as well.  "He won't be satisfied until he arrests everyone within a mile of the place," Sherlock grumbled, leading the way to the house through the gates that had been left ajar. 

The house was locked but proved no hindrance to Sherlock, although Lestrade voiced a token protest.  The house was completely deserted, echoing the sound of their footsteps as they walked down the hallway to the library.  Bartholomew Sholto's body had been removed but little else had been done to clean the room, although Sherlock complained loudly about the destruction of clues by the ham-fisted constabulary.  He set John and Lestrade to looking through the papers around the desk while he explored the rest of the room, looking behind the curtains and behind the paintings,  studying the floors and the carpet.  At one point he fell to his knees to examine the window sill, plucking free a fragment that had caught on a snag.  
  
"It is as I suspected," he said as he sat back on his heels. "The murderers came in through this window.  Traces of mud and grass from the path outside have been tracked in.  The window was partially open at the top - careless of Bartholomew, given his extreme fear - and the smaller one climbed in, then opened the window fully to allow her partner to enter.  He crossed to the desk, looking for something there - that much is plain."  
  
"Looking for what?" Lestrade asked, picking up the papers scattered on the floor and flicking through them.    
  
"Major Sholto's current location, I believe."  Sherlock paced around the room again.  "Let us theorize that Small managed to obtain the Major's address from the Horse Guards but was stymied when he went to the Major's house because he wasn't there; he'd gone to his uncle's house in Scotland.  Small proceeds north and arrives here, only to find that his prey has flown.  He can't question the uncle because he's dead - and I believe that we can lay that crime at the feet of Small's companion.  No doubt her entrance startled him and so she reacted, killing him via the blowpipe that her people favoured.   With no way to learn Sholto's location from his uncle, Small turns to the desk and goes through the papers."  
  
"Yeah, well he'd be out of luck," Lestrade said, flinging the papers down on the desk in disgust.  "Nothing here of significance, unless he was interested in the history of India.  It looks like Bartholomew Sholto was writing a book on the subject."  
  
"I don't think it was Bartholomew writing the story," John said, frowning over the pages and read one of the passages aloud.  " 'We walked down a dusty trail worn smooth by the passage of pilgrim's feet, to the ruins where a great temple once stood - " He broke off, looking at the other two men.  "These are the words of a man who has been to the place he writes about, not a reclusive hermit like Bartholomew Sholto was said to be.  I believe that this was written by his father, John Sholto."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "What would Small want with such writings?"  
  
"Listen to this part: 'And so it was agreed that I would bring the treasure of Somnath back to England with me, to keep them from falling into the avaricious hands of Muhammad Shah of Lahore.  Chief among these jewels was the Moonstone, a large diamond of surpassing beauty that once was set in the forehead of the sacred statue of Chandra at the temple of Somnath.  I pledged my honour to keep the treasure safe and to guard it during my lifetime against the day when the temple would be rebuilt, when the sacred gems would be returned to the hands of the priests of the temple.  And I would know them by this symbol of the four phases of the moon god and by the worlds, The Sign of the Four'."    
  
John stopped and looked up at the other two men.  "Colonel Sholto didn't just bring home these souvenirs of his time in India; he brought home a treasure."  
  
Lestrade looked around the room with interest.  "Do you suppose the treasure is still here?"  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips.  "I imagine that's what the brothers argued about: Thaddeus wanted to return the treasure and Bartholomew wanted to keep it.  Parts of it have probably been sold over the years, to fund the upkeep of this house and to purchase some of the treasures in this room.  No doubt that's what led to Bartholomew's panic when he received that letter last December - notice that the priests were on their way to retrieve it."  
  
"You know, this is really fascinating writing," John said, still scanning the pages.  "Colonel Sholto had a way with language.  It's  a shame this never was published."  He set the pages down on the desk, turning to Sherlock.  "Now what do we do?  We're no closer to finding Small - we're not even certain that he did this.  It seems extreme, hunting down Major Sholto just because he helped send Small to prison.  It isn't as if the Major was the only one to testify at the trial."  
  
"Then we go talk to Major Sholto," Sherlock said.  "Perhaps there is more to the story than we know."

 

* * *

 

They returned to the inn to hire a carriage to take them to the jail in Dunfermlime, collecting Annie and Helen on the way.  Helen was inclined to be fussy, not wanting to feed, and John worried that this idea had been a bad one.  But how else were they to manage this while Helen was so small, unless they changed their mind about a wet-nurse?    
  
Athelney Jones was not inclined to let them visit his prisoner, especially after Sherlock impatiently informed him that Sholto wasn't the murderer and that even an idiot could have seen that.  Lestrade gave Sherlock an exasperated look and drew Jones aside to calm him down and persuade him to allow them to interview Sholto, as a courtesy to a fellow lawman.  While they waited, Sherlock paced back and forth in the vestibule, rubbing his chest irritably.  John settled in a chair, absently looking around the station: at the constables changing rotations, the drunk being escorted to a cell, the char-man mopping the floors despite his pronounced limp, the anxious woman seeking word about a missing son...  
  
His wandering mind snapped to attention, his eyes riveted on the cleaning-man.  "Sherlock," he said, quietly but urgently.  
  
Something about his tone of voice must have caught Sherlock's attention for he swung around, his eyes focusing on the man who had caught John's attention.  "Excellent, John," he said softly, then strode down the hallway toward the char-man. 

"Excuse me, good sir," he said loudly.  "I wonder if you could direct me toward the privies."  The char-man looked up from his mopping, startled.  "No?" Sherlock asked.  "I thought as much, seeing as you are not, in fact, the usual char-man.  You are Jonathan Small."  
  
Small stared at him, open-mouthed, then turned and ran in the other direction - directly towards where Lestrade and Jones stood talking.  Lestrade caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes and moved quickly to grab the fleeing man.  Small struggled to get free, producing a stiletto knife that Lestrade narrowly avoided before Jones could knock it out of the man's hand.  
  
"What's all this?" Jones demanded, then peered at Small.  "Here - you're not our usual cleaner!  Who are you?"  
  
"One of your murderers," Sherlock replied, striding over to them with John in tow.  "Jonathon Small, late of His Majesty's Army, more recently an inmate of Port Blair prison."  
  
Small glared at them.  "You're too late," he sneered at the same time that John picked up the stiletto.  
  
"Lestrade, where are you hurt?" he asked.  "There's blood on this."  
  
"I'm not - "  
  
John and Sherlock exchanged a look.  "Sholto."  
  
They ran back along the corridor to the cells.  The constable on duty looked up, startled by their sudden arrival, and Sherlock snapped his fingers at him.  "Keys!  Major Sholto's cell!"  The constable stared at him, open-mouthed.  "Quickly, man!  A life may depend on it!"  
  
The constable scrambled up, grabbing the keys, while John went along the row of cells, peering in.  He found Major Sholto's, and it appeared that the man was napping on the narrow bed - if one ignored the blood dripping onto the floor under the cot.  
  
"Major Sholto!" John shouted.  The man didn't stir and John's heart sank to his boots.  "James!"  There was no reply.  John stood aside to allow the constable to unlock the cell, then rushed inside.  "Major!"    
  
He reached for Sholto's neck, feeling for his pulse, and was relieved to find it.  "Sherlock, he's alive," he said, then looked briefly at the constable.  "Get a litter - he'll need to go to hospital." The man hesitated and he snapped, "Do it!"  
  
The constable hurried out, passing the keys to Athelney Jones who used them to unlock the next cell and shove Small inside.  Weakly, Sholto turned his head and appeared to be attempting to focus on John.  
  
"Watson," Sholto said faintly.  "I believe I am in need of medical attention."  
  
John smiled back at him.  "Well, you're in luck.  I believe I am your doctor."  Quickly, he scanned down Sholto's body, seeking the source of injury.  There was a narrow slit in the back of Sholto's coat and when John touched it, his fingers came away wet with blood.    
  
"I need a knife."    
  
He didn't look up as a knife was handed over, concentrating on ripping open the back of Sholto's coat and waistcoat, then pulling up his shirt, baring the skin.  The wound was clear to see, small but bleeding steadily.  "Sherlock, give me your scarf.  Quickly!"  Wordlessly, Sherlock unwrapped the scarf from his neck and handed it to John who made it into a pad and pressed it against the wound to slow the bleeding.  He grabbed Sherlock's hand, tugging him down and positioning his fingers on Sholto's back.   "Press here - hard.  Yeah, like that.  Keep pressure on that wound."    
  
Sherlock obligingly knelt beside the cot so that he could keep a steady pressure, while John went to Sholto's head to check his vital signs.  "James, stay with me.  You're going to be fine, we'll get you to hospital."  Sholto nodded weakly and John looked over at Jones.  "Where's the nearest hospital or infirmary?"  
  
"Across the street, founded by Queen Margaret herself," Jones volunteered readily.  "Chief Medical Officer was a military surgeon, trained in Edinburgh."  As two constables entered with a litter, he ordered, "Carefully now, lads!"  
  
As the two men carefully transferred Major Sholto from the bed to the pallet, with John's assistance, Sherlock kept his hand firmly on Sholto's wound and his eyes on John's face.  John could feel the burning intensity of his gaze and knew that there would be questions, later.  For now, he took over the job of keeping pressure on the wound to allow Sherlock to remain behind for the questioning of Small, as there was still the matter of his companion-in-crime to locate.  He kept Sholto talking as the constables quickly transferred the wounded man to the infirmary.  John reluctantly turned him over to the doctors there, promising to return to check on him once he'd been treated.  
  
"Peter," Sholto whispered to him as he took his leave, and John gave him a puzzled look.  "Corporal Peter Small.  The fire.  On  St. Helena."  
  
John nodded his understanding, then returned to the jail where, not surprisingly, Small was refusing to talk.  He walked up to the bars of the cell and stared at the man where he sat on the cot.  
  
"Your brother, Corporal Peter Small," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock frowning as he spoke.  "He was killed in a barracks fire on St. Helena."  
  
Small looked up, his lips pressed into a bitter line.  "He let my brother die."  
  
"Major Sholto was badly injured pulling his men to safety," John replied.  "His career was ended, his life nearly lost.  If he couldn't get to your brother, it wasn't for lack of trying."  
  
Small stood, limping to the bars, eyes blazing.  "Major Sholto ruined my family!  My brother dead, me sent to prison - "  
  
"Which you deserved," John said, his voice flat and tight.  "I was there, in India.  Captain Morstan was a good man, and you killed him out of greed.  Just like you killed Bartholomew Sholto."  
  
"That wasn't me," Small said, and John could see the fear of hanging on his face.  "Tonga did that - very clever she thought she was, killing the old man, and surprised when I took the back of my hand to her for it.  All that way we'd come to find the Major and put paid to him, and now how was I to search him out?  Not a sign of where he'd gone, just his kit left behind.  Would have hid in the house and waited for him if I'd known when he would return, but I was feared that Tonga would go for the servant next.  Blood-thirsty little devil she is.  Her people are head-hunters."  
  
"She's unusual, I'll grant you that," Sherlock said, coming forward to take up the questioning.  "A native of Borneo, I believe.  How did you come to be in her company?"  
  
Small rubbed his hand over his face and made his way back to his cot, sitting heavily on it.  "After I escaped from Port Blair, I took to sea in a skiff I stole from the port, then caught a trading vessel bound for the British post at Singapore.  From there I hired onto a ship bound for Hong Kong, but a storm came up two days out and blew us off course.  The ship was wrecked - and me with it, I thought.  She found me, washed up on the shore of the God-forsaken bit of land where her people lived, hid me from them and nursed me back to health.  We stowed away on a trader plying the waters between Singapore and Hong Kong, then did what we could to earn passage to England.  Passed as husband and wife, though no words were spoke over us."  
  
"And where is she now?"  
  
Small shrugged.  "She wasn't best pleased by me taking my hand to her at Sholto's.  Cleared off the minute we were shot of the place.  I expect she'll be near the docks - clever little beast with any watercraft, she is.  Her people are pirates."  He grinned at them, but with little humour behind it.  "You'll never find her."  
  
Sherlock turned to Jones, giving him a brief description of the woman they were searching for, then turned to John and Lestrade.  "There is nothing more to be done here now.  Sholto is cleared of all charges."  
  
"Good.  I want to stop in at the infirmary and find out how the Major is faring," John said, turning toward the hallway.

"Captain Watson!" Small called out and, surprised, John turned back to him.  "Aye, I know you.  You tried to save Morstan.   We didn't mean to kill him."

"Seems like a lot of people died without you meaning to kill them," John said shortly.  "How did you know where to find Sholto?  I know that the Horse Guards wouldn't have given you his direction; he values his privacy."

An ugly smile widened on Small's face.  "Easy enough when you know the right people.  A patron, of sorts.  Me and mine aren't the only ones Major Sholto wronged."

"I doubt that your patron will be able to keep you from the hangman," John said shortly. 

Small shrugged.  "Dark nights are unpleasant for strangers to travel." He laid down on his cot, turning his back to John.

John frowned at this cryptic statement as he quickened his step to catch up to the others.  "Lucky you came along when you did," Lestrade was saying to Sherlock.  "Major Sholto might have laid there for hours."  
  
Sherlock sniffed.  "As I have told you before, 'luck' has little to do with the matter.  No, the only feature of interest in this whole baffling mystery is that while I was trying to solve a murder, John instead saved a life."  
  
He turned and walked back down the hallway towards the reception area.  Lestrade stared after him, open-mouthed for a moment, then turned to John.  "Bloody hell.  Did he just complement you?  The world must be coming to an end."  
  
John laughed but he couldn't help enjoying the warm feeling inside at what Sherlock had just said.

* * *

 

The news at the infirmary was cautiously optimistic.  Sholto was recovering from surgery and unable to receive visitors but he had pulled through well.  Of concern, of course, was the loss of blood and the possibility of infection, and he would need careful nursing for a good while afterwards.  John promised to contact his old mentor at the University for recommendations.  
  
Sherlock was silent on the way back to the port at North Queensferry, brooding about something although John couldn't begin to guess what.  At Inverkeithing, he suddenly directed the driver to take them to Pondicherry House, where he jumped down from the carriage and strode into the house.  John hurried after him, his pulse quickening as he sensed the end to the final mystery was near.  The house was still unlocked, deserted except for them, and John shivered again at the empty feel of the place.  
  
In the parlour, he found Sherlock standing on top of the table, staring up at the ornate chandelier that hung in the centre of the room.  The crystals were dull and filmed with grime, the candles gutted in their places, but John thought that it must have once sparkled like a diamond tiara.  
  
Sherlock made a triumphant noise and reached up into the light, plucking one of the crystals from its setting and lowering it so that John could see.  "Look at it, John!  Possibly the single most perfect diamond in the world, worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.  The Chandra Moonstone of Somnath."  
  
John stared at it, watching as the large smooth gemstone caught the light coming through the window.  "It's magnificent!  What do we do with it now?"  
  
"I imagine that Mycroft will have the answer to that question."  Sherlock pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped the gem in it, carefully tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat against the journey home.  
  
Mycroft did indeed know what to do with the gemstone, and he took possession of it reverently before locking it in the safe in John's office.  With Charlie's help, he had located the Hindu priests and agreed to arrange its return to them.  John had no doubt that Major Sholto would endeavour to locate what remained of the treasure and to see that it was returned as well, once he was recovered.  
  
With a sense of satisfaction for the day's work done, he sat in one of the chairs before Sherlock's fireplace, watching as his husband transferred their sleepy, sated daughter to her nursemaid's care for the evening.  Although Sherlock was clearly fatigued, even John's sharp eyes could detect no harm had come to the man from their excursion, despite Nurse Camwell's dire warnings.  He had no doubt that Sherlock would sleep well, at least for four or five hours until Helen woke to feed, and with an internal sigh he made ready to return to his own room for the night. 

He had just knocked the tobacco ash from his pipe and rose from his chair in preparation for biding Sherlock good-night when Sherlock spoke.  
  
"You and Major Sholto."  
  
John turned and looked at Sherlock, then nodded.  He wouldn't insult Sherlock by saying something idiotic like "what about the Major and me?", not that it would matter.  "Yes," he said.  "Many years ago, when we first arrived in India."  
  
Sherlock nodded and turned to his bed, draping his dressing gown across the foot.  "He would be an excellent choice for godfather, should he recover enough for Helen's christening."  
  
Surprised, John agreed and then added, "You don't mind?"  
  
"About your past relationship?  It would be ridiculous for me to be jealous about something that occurred many years before we ever met."  
  
" 'Relationship' is giving more weight to what was there between us," John said honestly.  "A few months only, in secret because we are both Alphas, but it is a memory that I cherish."  
  
"Perhaps one day you will tell me more about it," Sherlock said, slipping into his bed.  
  
"Perhaps."  John wondered if the day would ever come when he would feel comfortable telling his husband about his past romances and lovers, feeling himself blush even as he thought about it.  Perhaps he'd write them down instead.  It would be easier if he didn't see Sherlock's face as he was telling the tale.  Perhaps.  
  
He bid good-night to Sherlock, entering his bedchamber and settling once more before his own fireplace.  For several long minutes, perhaps as much as thirty, he sat staring into its flames before he rose to collect the new moleskin that Sherlock had given him for Epiphany and his portable writing table, then he settled back in his chair and began writing.  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that I'm not the only one who noticed the Sholto connection to the House of Douglas. Baring-Gould mentions John Sholto Douglas, the Marquis of Queensberry (of boxing rule fame), who hadn't been born yet in our John's time period but would be his 5th cousin. However, the Marquis is a late-comer to the Sholto-party in the Douglas family, the name first appearing about a hundred years earlier.
> 
> "The Moonstone" is a story by Wilkie Collins, considered the first detective story. It was written in 1868, so about 45 years after this story. Some of its elements have been incorporated here. Other credits go to ACD, for his original text, and Ariane DeVere for her transcriptions of the BBC episodes.
> 
> Sister Camwell's comments on Omegas comes directly from "Women's Work: A Woman's Thoughts on Women's Rights", printed in 1876.
> 
> Small's cryptic message to John comes from "The Valley of Fear". It should be a hint, of sorts.


	45. Part IV: Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen is christened, and then the Holmes-Watsons return to London. Cases soon follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case referred here is "The Resident Patient" and some of the lines are from canon. The rest are made up by me.
> 
> Ready for the roller-coaster to begin? Then raise your hands in the air like you just don't care as we begin the climb.

The fourth of April dawned fair and mild, and a sizeable crowd gathered in the churchyard of St. Mary's in Dalmahoy to witness the christening of Lady Helen Sherringford Holmes-Watson.  John was pleased to see that among the arrivals was Major Sholto, looking in much better health and supported by Sister Sawyer, the private nurse John had found for his friend.  He was accompanied by the Earl of Morton and his wife, whom John had asked to stand as godparents with James Sholto.  Also in attendance were the Earl of Hopetoun and his family, the widowed Lady Brackenstall, and others friends and relatives who hadn't yet gone to London for the Season.    
  
Although Nanny Annie was at hand with distractions should the baby prove fractious, they were unnecessary.  Helen appeared to have inherited both her father's easy-going nature as well as Sherlock's predilection for being at the centre of attention and was tranquil during the baptismal sacrament.  She lay contentedly in John's arms as her parents and godparents gave their affirmations, and tolerated being anointed with chrism and water with only a slight whimper, as her aunts and uncles looked on fondly.  
  
Afterwards, the assembled guests repaired to Dalmahoy House for the christening luncheon. Clara was everywhere, attending to the guests and overseeing the buffet table.  She was happier than John had ever seen her, and it was only partially because she enjoyed hosting parties.  The fond glances between her and Harry told their own story, and John was truly happy for them.  And he could tell from Georgia's surreptitious looks at her parents that she hoped their happiness would allow them to bestow their approval on her choice.  
  
"Your lord husband is looking well after his ordeal," Lady Gwydyr said, coming to stand beside John, and he smiled politely at her.  The formidable Almack's patroness had just produced cards for Georgia and John had no intention of slighting the woman, even if he sometimes found her outspokenness grating.  "And your daughter is quite pretty.  She will have Lord Sherlock's dark curls and your eyes, I'll warrant.  You will have no trouble in finding a good match for her, when the time comes."  
  
"There's many years before I need think on that," John said hastily.  
  
"Less than you think," she said drily.  "Will we see you and Lord Sherlock in London this season?"  
  
He nodded.  "We shall be there in time for my niece's come-out party.  Lord Sherlock is most eager to return to his work."  
  
"As well he should be," Lady Gwydyr said.  "He is quite skilled at his work."  
  
John raised an eyebrow.  "No admonishments to tell my husband that he should behave as a proper Omega, to tend to his needle and hearth?"  
  
She chuckled.  "I should think he would be spectacularly bad at both," she said and he had to grin and nod in agreement.  "Lord Saughton, had I been born an Alpha, I would have inherited my father's title and his seat in Parliament.  As I am an Omega, I had to content myself with the role of political hostess, to help further my husband's ambitions.  But one day Omegas will take their rightful places in all avenues of life, and it will be those like your husband who gain us that acceptance."  
  
John was still trying to think of a reply to that when several of his Hope cousins approached to bestow their congratulations.

They returned to Saughton accompanied by Archie, while his parents and Georgia went on to London to launch her Season.   For the next few weeks, John rarely saw Archie or Sherlock without the other, and both practically lived in Sherlock's lab.  If Cook hadn't refused to serve their dinner to the lab, John doubted that he would have seen either until Archie went off to bed.  He didn't complain, though, for it was clear that Sherlock was delighted to share his interests with his nephew and that Archie was thriving with someone to encourage him.  
  
Still, his days were dull without company, as Mycroft and Lestrade had returned to London, along with Major Sholto and nearly all the gentry in the surrounding area, and Charlie was occupied with fitting out his repaired ship.  Cases had dried up while Sherlock was recovering from delivering their daughter, and the few that had come his way were dismissed as too dull or simple to grab his attention.  John had spent most of March with Wimmering and the farms, but now that the planting was done, there was little for him to do.  However, John was once again sharing his nights with Sherlock, which compensated for the lack of his company during the day.  And John slept better than he had in weeks with his husband's warm body wrapped around him.   
  
However, John was happy when it was time to return to London, although the logistics of getting their larger household there was not easy.  He sent Mrs. Hudson and Billy ahead of them by carriage, so that she could have time to open the house on Baker Street and make sure that the renovations were complete, as well as hire new maids and a cook.  Wiggins went with them to handle the details of the journey, and John made a mental note to discuss promoting Wiggins to their private secretary.  The young man was more valuable in assisting Sherlock than clothing him, and John thought they could hire someone to valet for both of them.  
  
A week later, the rest of the household boarded Charlie's ship, now ready for work in the Mediterranean.  Annie was a bit uncertain about travelling by sea but, after a rough first day, recovered enough to leave her cabin for the passenger's salon.  Helen proved that she had Watson blood in her veins by taking to the motion of the ship like a true sailor, sleeping like an angel much of the time.  Archie and Sherlock spent as much time on deck as possible, and it was only by using his firmest 'Captain Watson' voice that he kept them out of the rigging.  
  
At the Port of London, John reluctantly bid farewell to his brother for the next two years as the sailors loaded their luggage in the carriage.  Charlie smiled as he shook his hand saying, "Take care, little brother, and don't get into too much trouble.  At least you won't be bored!"  
  
John laughed at that.  "Anything but, it's true.  Have a care yourself, Charlie, and stay clear of Malta if you can - the air there is unhealthy."  
  
"Yes, Dr. Watson," his brother teased.  "Write to me of your adventures; it will relieve my boredom on dull evenings."  
  
"I doubt you'll have many of those," John replied.  "The ladies in port will no doubt demand your attendance at their balls and parties."  
  
With a last farewell, John joined his family in the carriage and an hour later they were set down at their home in Baker Street.  Sherlock paused a moment at their former front door which now bore the number "221B" while a plaque beside it read "Lord Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective".    
  
Sherlock turned back to him.  " _John_."  
  
John smiled, easily reading Sherlock's pleasure, and placed his hand on his husband's back.  "I thought it might be a good idea to officially put up your shingle.  This entrance is for clients - which will hopefully keep them from interrupting social visits and providing more gossip fodder."  
  
Sherlock's lips turned up in amusement.  "Chance would be a fine thing."  
  
Mrs. Hudson emerged from the other doorway, clasping her hands in pleasure at the sight of them.  "My dear boys!  How tired you look!  Come, have a wash while I bring up your tea," she ordered John and Sherlock, ushering them inside, then turned to Annie holding the baby.  "And our dear little one!  We'll have you settled in the nursery in a trice!"    
  
She shut the door behind them and led the way to the stairs, talking the entire time.  "Wiggins has a tin of hot water waiting in your dressing room, m'lord.  Mr. Archie, Jane will show you to your room and unpack your trunk.  Martha, pop down to the kitchen and let Mrs. White know that his Lordship is home and to send up the tea tray."    
  
Familiar with the plans for the renovation, John led the way to the original stairs to their rooms while Mrs. Hudson escorted Annie up to the nursery.  John was pleased to see that his former bedroom had been refitted as a dressing room, with a chaise for Sherlock's use when nursing their daughter.  Wiggins was waiting to help them out of their travelling clothes and into dressing gowns, and as John stretched his slippered feet towards the blaze in the little fireplace in their bedchamber, he let out a pleased sigh.    
  
"It's good to be home," he said.  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrow as he packed John's pipe before handing it to him.  "I would think that you'd consider Saughton to be 'home'."  
  
"Can't a person have more than one home?" John asked, lighting his pipe.  The distinctive scent of his favourite Sort filled his senses and he sighed in contentment.  "I love Saughton but I must confess that I prefer the City.  I doubt that I'm cut out to play the country squire for long.  After all, you said 'dangerous' and I came running."  
  
Sherlock chuckled as he packed his own pipe.  John loved the sound of that laugh, so deep and so rare, and he grinned at his husband in response.    
  
After partaking of tea and quiet for an hour, John repaired to the bathing chamber for a wash while Sherlock attended to Helen's needs.  John opted for casual dinner dress, knowing that they would have no other company than Archie that evening, and descended to the first floor to find that his nephew was amusing himself with a tome almost as big as his head from Sherlock's library.  So absorbed was Archie that he would have forgone dinner if allowed (and so would Sherlock), but  the new cook had been recommended by Mycroft for her ability to tempt capricious appetites.  Eyeing the empty platters sent back to the kitchen, John declared Mrs. White a success and resolved to thank Mrs. Hudson for her discovery of this gastronomic marvel.  
  
There were already visiting cards left for them and invitations to the most glittering of the Season's parties, all of which John and Sherlock ignored in favour of a quiet evening at home.  However, they were not afforded that luxury over the next few days, for the knocker began sounding at ten the next morning and didn't stop until it was nearly time to dress for dinner.  Anyone who had ever paid a morning call on the Saughtons and had not visited them in Scotland seemed to feel obliged to pay a call on them.  Helen was much admired at the same time that John was consoled with the words "the next one will be an Alpha" until he had to curl his hands into fists to keep from snapping at some well-meaning idiot.  Sherlock abandoned him after the first morning - not that John blamed him, and he readily made excuses for his husband rather than risk him ostracising some Society dragon.    
  
After the third day of visits, John threw in the towel himself and bade Mrs. Hudson deny them to any visitors except family.  On that day, they made a family day of it, taking Archie to view various sights around London as he was to return to his parents the following day.  When Harry came for Archie, John didn't know who looked more upset at the prospect of separation, Sherlock or Archie.  It was only with promises of daily correspondence (from Archie) and detailed sketches of his next corpse (from Sherlock) that Harry was allowed to carry away her son.  After which Sherlock proceeded to indulge in an epic sulk.  
  
Fortunately for John's peace of mind, a new case came to them the next day.  

They had just returned from a stroll to the park the following evening, in the company of their daughter and her nanny, when Sherlock noticed that a brougham was pulled up before their 221B door.  One glance was enough to tell Sherlock that the owner was a doctor, not long in practice but doing quite well for himself.  Glee lit up his face, and it was clear to John that this sort of visitor was much more welcome to his husband than the sort they'd entertained more recently.  John saw the nanny and her charge into the house, then rang the maid to bring tea for their visitor before joining Sherlock in the parlour that had been set aside for clients.    
  
Their client was shaking hands with Sherlock as John entered, and John could swiftly see that the man was a few years older than him but had a pale complexion and a thinness to his face that added to his years.  He was attired in a sober coat and trousers, with an unadorned waistcoat and a plainly tied cravat.  He introduced himself as Dr. Percy Trevelyan, and John started in recognition of the name.  
  
"Are you not the author of a monograph on obscure nervous lesions?" John asked when he'd shook the man's hand.    
  
Dr. Trevelyan expressed pleasure at the knowledge that his work had been of interest and so it was that, after accepting a cup of tea, their client was far more relaxed as he took his seat.  Thus it was that he explained how he had come to put up his shingle a few years earlier, before he could have afforded it on his own, of his benefactor and resident patient.  Then he told them about the odd patient he'd had the day prior, who had gone into a catatonic trance while giving his history, then had disappeared while Trevelyan was retrieving his medication to treat the man.  The man had returned that afternoon, full of apologies and accompanied by his son "in case he fell into another fit", and Trevelyan had thought it odd but nothing more.  But when his patron, Mr. Blessington, returned from his customary walk, he'd become nearly apoplectic with anger and then white with fear, declaring that his rooms had been violated.  He'd been so upset that Trevelyan had pledged to lay the matter at Lord Sherlock's feet immediately.  
  
"It must have been the Russian gentleman, for I'd had no other patients either afternoon, but why would they wish to enter Mr. Blessington's rooms?" Trevelyan said.  "I would have thought robbery, but nothing is missing and he appears to have nothing of value, save a large chest at the foot of his bed.  Blessington agreed, and once I'd administered a draught to calm his nerves, I came here to ask if you would call tomorrow morning.  If you could cast some light on the matter, it would allay my patient's fears considerably."  
  
Sherlock readily agreed, which surprised John as he would have thought the case too pedestrian to interest him.  After fixing on the hour of eight, Trevelyan shook hands with them both and departed.  John turned and raised his eyebrows inquisitively at his husband.  
  
"I see your astonishment, John, but there are elements of interest to the case," Sherlock replied, leading the way upstairs to their dressing room so that they might change for dinner.  "It is clear that the two gentlemen are the culprits, but they are no mere burglars.  Nor, unless I miss my guess, is the elder one Russian.  By the timing of their visits, it is clear that they wished to examine Blessington's rooms while he was enjoying his customary stroll, so they must have been watching the house for several days.  Why, then, did they not take what they had come after?  It is doubtful that they will be allowed back in the building to make another attempt."  
  
"Maybe they didn't find what they were looking for?" John said as he removed his boots to replace them with house shoes.  His rough tweed coat was replaced by one of superfine, as he decided that dinner with his husband didn't require a change of trousers or waistcoat.    
  
Sherlock, as was his wont, had discarded all but his shirt and smalls, to don new raiment for the evening.  He frowned into the mirror as he worked a new cravat into the desired shape, then extended his arms for Wiggins to help him ease into the coat.  "Unlikely but possible," he admitted.  "I will need to survey the scene to be certain."  
  
However, when they arrived at the Brook Street address given to them by their client, it was clear that something of a momentous nature had occurred for several constables were swarming about the ground floor and the staircase.  Dr. Trevelyan was standing to one side, wringing his hands, and his face lit up as they were shown in by the maid.  
  
"Lord Sherlock!  How glad I am to see you!" he cried, seizing Sherlock's hand as if it was a lifeline.  
  
"What has happened to throw you into such a state?" John asked, concerned by their client's unkempt appearance, as it looked like he'd dressed in a hurry and hadn't taken the time to even comb his hair.  
  
"Mr. Blessington has committed suicide!" he replied.  "The maid discovered him when she took in his tea, not an hour ago.  The sheriff has just arrived."  
  
"Then we will go up and see what assistance we can lend," Sherlock said, leading the way up the stairs.    
  
It was a dreadful sight that they beheld, for the dead man was clad only in his nightdress and dangling from a hook in the ceiling above his bed.  A smartly dressed man was surveying the scene, taking notes, and he turned to nod at Sherlock.  
  
"Ah, Lord Sherlock!  I am delighted to see you."  
  
"Good morning, Lanner," Sherlock said, greeting the sheriff with a politeness that told John that he deemed this man to be of better intelligence than most of the constabulary, Lestrade excepted.  "Have you formed any opinions?"  
  
"The bed was lain in and the rope came from his own store, under the bed.  We are meant to believe that he was so out of senses with fright that he hanged himself early this morning," Lanner replied.  
  
"You don't believe it?"  
  
Lanner laid for cigar ends down on the table for his inspection.  "These were found in the fireplace.  More than a trifle odd for him to have tossed them there when there was an ashtray right beside the bed.  And his cigar case is full, as you can see."  
  
Sherlock examined the case.  "These are of a different type entirely, extremely fine and from Havana, while the ends are from a common cigar available in any tobacco shop.  Did Dr. Trevelyan tell you of the peculiar events of the past two days?"  
  
Lanner tilted his head inquisitively.  "Odd, that - especially since the maid had left for the day in both cases and can't corroborate his description of the men."  
  
"You suspect Trevelyan," Sherlock said flatly.  
  
"He would have the most to gain, Blessington not having kin to leave his blunt to."  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "Trevelyan is innocent of this murder - and murder it is.  Or rather, an execution."  
  
"Execution!" Lanner exclaimed.  
  
"Do you not recognize him?" Sherlock said, gesturing towards the dead man who was being carefully lowered by three of the constables.  "A sketch of him was in every paper several years ago, as he gave testimony in the Worthingdon bank robbery.  He has lost considerable weight since then, no doubt due to his anxiety over the gang's release from prison."  
  
Lanner stared at the man's face as he was laid out on the bed.  "By Jove! It's Sutton, as I live and breathe."  
  
John frowned, trying to recall the names, and Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.  "It would have been while you were in India, John, a little over seven years ago.  A man was killed during the robbery and Sutton turned informer to save his neck.  The leader of the gang was hanged and the other three got seven years for it."  
  
Sherlock went on to lay out the sequence of events of the previous night, advising Lanner to take the page boy into custody as he had let the men into the house in the early hours of the morning.  The harbour authorities were alerted to watch for the three remaining members of the gang, and they were caught trying to board a ferry for Ireland.  They were remanded back to prison for life, although the page boy was released with a caution as it transpired that he'd been threatened by the ruffians.    
  
Trevelyan did inherit the building and the money that Blessington had been stowing away in his trunk, but his own nerves were damaged by the events that had taken place under his roof.  He soon sold the practice and opened another in Bath, where John heard that he was doing well for himself, although with a smaller list of clients than his Brook Street practice had garnered.    
  
The papers made much of the sensational nature of the crime, the initial robbery and the subsequent hanging catching the attention of the public, and Sherlock's name was much mentioned in their pages, with references to his previous publicized cases.  For several days, members of the press haunted their doorstep, and one of the reporters attempted to gain more intimate details about the famous sleuth from the servants.  Miss Riley had made her way into the house by way of the trade entrance and had managed to prime the scullery maid before she'd been found out and summarily ejected from the house by John.  

Fortunately, another scandal regarding the Royal Family occurred after three days and their focus turned elsewhere, for now.  John wrote up the case for the next edition of the Strand, then forgot about all of it in the whirl of cases and social events that followed.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new layout for Baker Street can be found in [ Worldbuilding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/10640760). 
> 
> The current St. Mary's Church in Dalmahoy wasn't actually completed at this time although there was another church on the site. The current church was provided by Helen, Lady Aberdour, and was consecrated on Tuesday, 24th September, 1850. Yes, that's our Helen, once she married the heir to the Earl of Morton. I thought it was amusing to have her christened in the previous church. It would have been the closest to John's home, as Saughton wasn't big enough to support a living. And baby Helen Watson was actually christened on that very day, although probably at home as she was the last of James Watson's very large family - and the only one to live long enough to have a child of her own.
> 
> Christenings were quite the event, as this article on [Victorian christenings](www.victoriana.com/partyplanning/christening.html) shows. A Regency christening would have been similar.


	46. Part IV: Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's fame builds following the case of the Resident Patient and John is worried about the negative side of this. And somewhere in England, a horse is stolen while a dog fails to bark in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cases mentioned are Doyle's, as are some of the words. Other words belong to Moftiss and "The Abominable Bride". The rest are mine.

Following the newspaper reports of Sherlock's assistance with the Blessington murder, which John had privately named "The Resident Patient", the knocker at 221B was rarely silent.  Day and night they came: messages from the Runners and the River Police, from the Night Watch and the Sheriff of London, from high-born Society matrons and middle-class shopkeepers.  Alice, one of their new maids, had threatened to quit as she could not get her work done for constantly answering the door, and even Mrs. Hudson remarked in a rare fit of temper that she was only wanted for showing in clients and bringing tea.  Cook complained about the stream of Irregulars who came to the servants' door, tracking up her nice clean floors with their mud.  Tempers among the staff grew short even as Sherlock's delight at the variety of puzzles presented to him increased.   Billy was the only one of the staff truly happy as his pockets grew heavy with the pennies he earned from running messages but John began to worry that they might lose the rest of their staff before the nine-days-wonder of Sherlock's new fame passed.  
  
Fortunately, the promotion of Wiggins from valet and part-time assistant to full-time Private Secretary, at John's suggestion, solved these problems.  He already assisted with screening requests and now he took on the task of answering the door to 221B, sorting out all the pleas for help that came in, and for coordinating the reports of the Irregulars.  After that, domestic matters at Baker Street went much smoother, although Sherlock complained about the newly-hired valet and refused to allow anyone to shave him but Wiggins.  Alice and Betty went about their regular duties undisturbed by the knocks on the office door, and even Cook unbent enough to make sure that each of the lads went away with a small meat pie tucked in their pocket.   
  
It was a good thing that domestic matters were settled for the cases took up much of their days.  Over the month of May alone, Sherlock solved the case of the murdered Neville St. Clair (who turned out to be alive but in jail for his own murder), the disappearance of Lord St. Simon's bride at the wedding breakfast, and the robbery at the brokerage of Mawson & Williams.  However, it was the case of the missing race horse that brought him to the attention of the highest in the land and, in an odd twist of fate, led them a step closer to disaster.  
  
On May 23rd, Silver Blaze had raced in the Epsom Derby and won in what was described as "the best Derby ever run".   He was scheduled to run in the Albany Stakes at Royal Ascot on June 5th, but on the evening of May 28th his trainer was murdered and Silver Blaze disappeared from his stall.  What made matters worse was that he was owned by HRH the Duke of York, so of course the papers were full of the case.  John expected to hear at any moment that the murderer had been apprehended and the prize stallion recovered, but there was no word, no sighting of the horse. 

Finally, on the evening of May 30th, six days before the race, Sherlock was asked by Mycroft, as a representative for the Duke, to look into the mystery.  The following morning, John and Sherlock made the three hour journey to Bagshot, accompanied by Wiggins, Annie and the baby.  On the way, Sherlock filled John in on the pertinent case details, items that had been withheld from the press.  The leading thought of the local constable, one Malcolm Gregory, was that one of the bookmakers in the area had stolen the racehorse and been pursued by the trainer, whom he violently struck down and killed.  The motive was that Simpson, the bookie, stood to lose a great deal of money should Silver Blaze win the race, and to add to the toll against him, he had been seen in the stable-yard earlier that evening. 

The problems with pinning it on Simpson, Sherlock noted, was that there was no sign of the horse anywhere near his house, and that his cane - thought to be the murder weapon - was free of blood. The trainer's knife, found at the scene, was bloodied, but Simpson bore no wounds while the assailant must surely have been injured.  And finally, the stables had been securely locked and guarded by one of the stable lads and the trainer's dog, a fierce animal inclined to bark at any stranger.  Indeed, he had set off a fierce ruckus at the sight of Simpson earlier, rousing the trainer who had a cottage separate from the stables. 

Worried, Straker had dressed and gone out to see to the horses, and that was the last time his wife saw him alive.  When the lads awoke in the morning, it was to the sight of an empty stall and the stable lad drugged into a stupor.  The trainer had been found shortly afterwards, near Windle Brook on the border of Bagshot Park, with his skull caved in.  Of Silver Blaze there was not a trace, and the constable had given as his opinion that the horse had bolted.  The woods that bordered the north-west of the park were thick and beyond that Swinley Forest provided rough terrain for searchers.  
  
They arrived at Bagshot shortly before noon and John bespoke a suite of rooms at the White Horse inn for their party.  Sherlock retreated to their bedchamber to tend to Helen and refresh himself while John ordered dinner for them, and Wiggins went to notify the constable that they had arrived.   John and Sherlock had just finished their meal when two gentlemen were shown into their private parlour by Wiggins.    
  
The first showed by his military demeanour that he was Colonel Ross, an Alpha, once a cavalry officer and now the manager of the Duke of York's racing stable.  The other was the constable of Bagshot, a tall Beta who stepped forward and bowed his head slightly to John before turning to Sherlock.    
  
"Lord Sherlock, thank you for coming."  
  
"Have there been any new developments?" Sherlock asked.    
  
"Unfortunately not," Constable Gregory said.  "Simpson is our most likely suspect but the evidence against him is all circumstantial.  Our best hope lies in discovering the whereabouts of the horse, which may provide more evidence.  Did you wish to see the murder site?"  
  
"Yes, and then the stables," Sherlock said.  
  
"Of course," replied Colonel Ross.    
  
Leaving Wiggins to unpack for them and Annie to tend to baby Helen, John and Sherlock climbed into a waiting landau for the short journey to King's Pyland, the Duke's stables.  John questioned Gregory as they drove, trying to fix the details of the case in his mind, as Sherlock sat silent, staring up at the sky.  He hardly appeared aware of his companions or when they arrived at their destination, and it was only when John touched his arm that he roused himself and stepped out of the carriage.  
  
"Are you all right?" John asked Sherlock quietly, wondering if the recent spate of cases had been too much for his husband.  However, the gleam in his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner told John that Sherlock had his hand upon a clue, though he couldn't imagine what it was or when he had acquired it.  
  
"Your pardon," Sherlock said, joining the other men.  "Just day-dreaming."

A short walk from the road over the rolling downs led them to a hollow where the body had been found.  Gregory pointed out some features such as the bush that Straker's coat had been laid over.  Sherlock carefully examined the ground which had been soft enough to retain footprints, then plucked a burned-out stub of candle from where it had been wedged into the ground.    
  
"Most satisfactory," he said, handing this to Gregory. "Now if I might see the body - and the path Straker would have taken to arrive here?"

Colonel Ross led the way along a visible footpath, explaining that the exercise boys regularly took this route when working the horses.  After a few minutes, they arrived at King's Pyland, a neat cluster of buildings that showed that the stables were a thriving and well-tended enterprise.  Several lads were going about the chores of mucking out stalls and replacing feed bags, and while they glanced quickly at the strangers, they didn't stop to stare at them.  In fact, the only one to display any sort of curiosity about them was the stable dog who barked and growled at them before being brought to heel by one of the lads.  John imagined that Ross ran a tight and orderly enterprise. 

Ross gestured toward the main house.  "Straker lies upstairs in the guest room.  The inquest is tomorrow."    
  
He led them inside and up the stairs to a small bedchamber where the murdered man was laid out on the bed.  Sherlock performed a quick examination of the body before stepping aside so that John could take a better look, moving over to the dresser were a collection of items were laid out.

"These were found on the body?" he asked.

Gregory nodded, and John joined Sherlock to peruse the little pile of objects.   Among them were some papers and an ivory handled knife with a delicate blade.  John carefully picked up the latter,studying it.  There was blood on the blade which told him that it had been used. 

"This is odd," he said.  "It's a cataract knife, not the kind of weapon a man would carry in his pocket."  
  
"There was a bit of cork on the ground beside his body - his wife said that it guarded the tip," Gregory told them.  "She said that it's been on his dresser for several days."  
  
"He must have picked it up on his way out, not having another weapon to hand," John said.  
  
"Very possibly," Sherlock agreed.  "What are these papers?"  He looked over a handful of receipts, pausing over one of them.  "This is a dressmaker's bill to William Derbyshire for thirty-seven pounds."  
  
Gregory nodded.  "Mrs. Straker said that Derbyshire was a good friend of her husband.  His letters were coming to her husband while he moved lodgings."  
  
"Mrs. Derbyshire has expensive tastes," Sherlock murmured.  "Twenty pounds for a single costume is a bit dear for the average pocketbook."  
  
John thought that ironic, considering the cost of the shirt Sherlock was wearing.  "A good friend, to be willing to receive his letters."  He glanced over at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows.  
  
Sherlock nodded and handed John the bill.  "Female apparel is more in your purview than mine."  He turned to Gregory.  "And now if I might speak with the lad who was drugged?"  
  
Gregory led the way out of the house but was stopped by a woman hovering at the foot of the stairs.  Her face was haggard and drawn with grief. 

"Have you got them?" she asked.  "Did you find them?"  
  
"No, Mrs. Straker, but Lord Sherlock has come down from London to help with the investigation."  
  
Sherlock tipped his hat politely to her.  "Mrs. Straker.  This is my husband, Lord Saughton."  
  
John took the Beta woman's hand.  "My sympathy, Mrs. Straker."  Then he cocked his head.  "Didn't we meet at the Royal Enclosure at the Derby?  You wore a dove-coloured silk dress with ostrich-feather trimming."  
  
She smiled faintly at him.  "You are mistaken, my lord.  I've never had such a dress."  
  
"Your shocking memory," Sherlock said reproachfully to John, and they took their leave of the grieving widow.  "Thank you, John.  That was deftly done," he said quietly as they crossed the stable-yard in Gregory's wake.    
  
John looked over at his husband and said, equally softly, "So Straker was having an affair.  Did you notice the details of the dress?  It was designed to allow for an expanding waistline.  Mrs. Derbyshire is in the family way and Mrs. Straker is not."  
  
"Nor likely to; she is a sterile Beta." Sherlock frowned slightly.  "That makes a few matters clear."

John didn't see how, but then again, Sherlock had no doubt put together several clues that John had missed.  Sherlock questioned the lad tasked with guarding the stables, but he had noticed nothing odd in either the food he ate or the beer he'd drunk, not until he'd woken feeling groggy and cotton-mouthed a few hours later.

"And your dog?" Sherlock asked, gesturing towards the animal who was now lying at the man's feet, his eyes fixed on them.  "Was he drugged as well?"

The guard shook his head, reaching down to pat the dog's head fondly.  "He's fine.   Bright-eyed and barking, as usual."  
  
Sherlock turned to the other lads waiting nearby.  "No odd behaviour the night of the disappearance?  No barking or restlessness?"  
  
"Not once old Simpson was drove off," one of the other lads replied.

"One more question," Sherlock said, turning to the stable-manager.  "Has there been any lameness in any of the animals lately?"

The man scratched his chin thoughtfully and then allowed as how the goat kept as stable-mate to Silver Blaze had gone lame the previous week, as had two of the broodmares.  Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, then turned to Gregory and Ross.  
  
"Your murderer is not a man, and could not be blamed as such for killing Straker, as it was in self-defence," Sherlock said.  
  
Gregory gaped at him.  "How can you know this?"  
  
"By the curious behaviour of the dog in the night-time."  
  
"But - but the dog did nothing!" Ross protested.  
  
"That," said Sherlock with satisfaction, "is the curious behaviour."  
  
Enlightenment began to dawn in John's mind and he turned to stare at his husband.  "Sherlock..."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "It was clear that the dog knew the man who entered the stables to take Silver Blaze.  This same person was the only one who had access to the watchman's food and drink, one of which was drugged to cause him to fall asleep.  Straker removed Silver Blaze from the stables and led him out onto the downs.  There he tied the horse to that bush where he laid his coat after removing it, then lit a candle so that he would have enough light for a very delicate operation.  You observed the knife which Lord Saughton described earlier?  With that he planned to make a small nick on the horse's tendons, just enough to lame him for the race.  He had practised on several other animals first, leading to the rash of lamed animals on the place."  
  
"But why?" Ross asked, aghast.  
  
"Straker has been leading a double life, as William Derbyshire, which includes a second wife who is now pregnant.  Straker needed money so that he could take care of her and his child, so he placed a bet against Silver Blaze.  That was what caught Simpson's attention and why he came sniffing around here for information.  Simpson didn't kill Straker."  
  
"But then who did?" Gregory asked.  
  
"Silver Blaze," Sherlock replied simply.  "Straker was behind the horse and something spooked him, possibly Straker's nerves made him rough or careless.  Silver Blaze lashed out, catching Straker in the forehead with his steel shoe.  If you compare one of his cast-offs against the marks on Straker's head it will become clear."  
  
"Good God!" Ross exclaimed while Gregory grabbed an old shoe and hurried into the house to do that.  "But then where is Silver Blaze?"  
  
"He bolted and no doubt ran across the downs until his fright eased, after which his instincts would have made him take shelter.  As you will recall, the night became very wet and blustery.  His choices would have been King's Pyland or Mapleton Stables across the park.  He is not here so he must be there."  
  
"But we've looked there!" Gregory objected.  "It was one of the first places we searched, as Silas Brown has a horse running against him at Ascot."  
  
Sherlock smiled.  "You looked for a horse with a white blaze.  If you widen your net and look more particularly at the foreheads of his horses, you will discover the truth of the matter."  
  
Ross and Gregory stared at Sherlock in wonder and then Gregory turned to Ross.  "Do you think you would know Silver Blaze even if disguised?" he asked.  
  
"As well as I know the faces of my own children," Ross replied, with certainty.  
  
After dropping Sherlock and John back at the inn, Ross and Gregory continued on to Mapleton to check the stables there.  Sherlock agreed to remain in Bagshot until the inquest the next day rather than return to London that night.   As the inn was comfortable and their dinner had been excellent, John was more than ready to agree, and so they settled down to a pleasant supper in their private parlour, with an excellent steak pie and an equally good ale to wash it down.  Then they were joined by Wiggins, Annie, and their daughter for a domestic evening before the fire, where Sherlock recounted the story to Wiggins while John noted details for writing up the case.  

When Helen started looking sleepy, Sherlock withdrew so that he could nurse her, then turned her over to her nursemaid before rejoining John before the fire.  He had exchanged his coat for a dressing gown and stretched his slippered feet towards the blaze for warmth, for rain had set in again and the night was cool.  
  
After they had smoked their pipes in companionable silence for a little while John said, "There's one thing that I don't understand about this business."  
  
Sherlock gave him a half-smile around the stem of his pipe.  "Just one?" he teased.  
  
"Coxcomb," John retorted, affectionately.  "The second wife - I assume she's not just a lady-bird, not if everyone thought of her as Mrs. Derbyshire.  Why did he do it?"

"One assumes he fell in love with the lady and she wouldn't accept a _carte-blanche."_

"Then he should have either made a clean break with the first Mrs. Straker or given up the other lady.  To run both women was a dashed havey-cavey business."

"And expensive, one would think, to maintain two households," Sherlock said blandly. 

"His treatment of both of them was too shabby by half.  It speaks of a lamentable want of character on his part."

"I would think that obvious since he was willing to lame a horse in his charge," Sherlock said drily.  "But what would you have him do, John?  Abandon the vows he'd made to his wife?  Or desert the woman carrying his child?"

"He shouldn't have got her with child to begin with," John pointed out.

"I suppose that his passions got the best of him."

"He should have honoured his vows of fidelity, although there are many who don't," John said frankly,  "Clearly he cared enough about this second woman to marry her bigamously rather than mounting her as his mistress, and perhaps he still loved his first wife and didn't wish to pain her through divorce.  But once he learned about the child, he should have done his duty by both women.  Instead, he has caused humiliation for Mrs. Straker as well as loss of her home and support, and he has left this other woman with a bastard child and no provider.  His weakness of character has exposed both women to loss, grief and shame."   He sighed.  "I will ask Pickering to find this Mrs. Derbyshire and set up funds for both women."  
  
There was no reply and he glanced over at Sherlock to see that his husband was studying him with a puzzled look on his face.  "What?  Have I said something wrong?"  
  
"You are a puzzle, John Watson," Sherlock said slowly.  "Some days I think that I will never truly know the measure of you."  
  
John gave him a lopsided grin.  "Well, that's good, yeah?  You love puzzles, and I won't bore you too much."  
  
"I can safely say that you never do bore me," Sherlock replied, then returned to smoking his pipe.    
  
John smiled and settled back into his chair, content to share the silence with his husband.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Constable Gregory came by to take them to the inquest, pleased to report that Silver Blaze had indeed been discovered in Silas Brown's stables, his distinctive blaze disguised by dye, and was now returned to his home.  The racehorse seemed none-the-worse for his adventure and there was little doubt that the racing public would breathe a sigh of relief at his return.    
  
The inquest was short as Gregory presented the information that Sherlock had gathered and the coroner agreed with the cause of the injuries to Straker.  Cause of death was given as "death by misadventure", so as to spare Mrs. Straker from the pain of her husband's misdeed, and Simpson was released without prejudice.  John didn't attend, instead spending his time in securing a carriage for their return to London and settling their account at the inn.    
  
By the time they reached London, the news had already spread to the press and they had to dodge the reporters lurking about their doorstep.  For a few days after it was impossible for any member of the household to leave by the front door without being approached by one of this intrepid brotherhood, and Annie took to slipping out the gate into the mews when taking the baby for her daily airing. The one positive note to the whole matter was that they were invited by the Duke of York to join him in the Royal Enclosure where they watched Silver Blaze handily defeat the rest of the field by three solid lengths.  
  
With so many recent sensational cases to Sherlock's credit, it had become difficult for either of them to go out in public without being recognized.  Sketches of Sherlock's face with his distinctive coat and profile appeared on the front page of every paper after the Silver Blaze case, some of them showing him with such absurd head-wear that Sherlock threw down the papers in disgust.  One of their illustrators had taken to drawing John with a moustache which at least afforded him a small degree of anonymity as well as giving him additional reasons to eschew facial hair, the primary one being that Sherlock preferred him clean-shaven despite the growing fashion among the Ton.  Their appearance at social functions was invariably greeted with whispers and stares, until John began to long for an end to the Season.  He hoped that during their sojourn in Scotland the furour would die down or some other piece of news would take precedence.   For John had been around Society to know that as much as the public loved their current darlings, they would be just as happy to see them succumb to scandal and disgrace.

As July dawned and with it the height of the Season, their entry table became littered with invitations.  There were few that they accepted, as Sherlock preferred to spend his free time working on experiments with Archie and John was occupied in reworking their recent cases into stories for the Strand.  Lady Nassington's annual party was an exception, of course, as was the final party that Clara would give before their return to Scotland.  And occasionally Sherlock would announce that they were going to Almack's for the evening, which made John sigh but agree.  While he doubted that Sherlock would resort to asking one of their friends to escort him there, John didn't wish to risk it - or to start rumours that their marriage was troubled.  He also had to admit that, while he disliked dancing for the most part, there was a certain pleasure to be found in whirling about the floor with his husband in his arms.   Sherlock was a graceful dancer, his hand much sought after, and John knew that without Sherlock's earlier pledge to only dance waltzes with him that John would have been lucky to secure even one dance.

Georgia was also a much-sought-after partner at Almack's, having successfully launched into Society.  John saw many of the match-making mamas eyeing her as a prospective mate for their darling sons and daughters, and Georgia's refusal to indicate a preference dashed many hopes.  Molly, of course, could never hope to pass the portal of the Marriage Mart as both her lack of background and occupation barred her from that select establishment.  However, there were other, less exclusive, parties that she attended and Georgia was always prompt in soliciting Molly's hand for one of the sets, but she was careful not to show a preference that would cause tongues to wag.   John was therefore surprised to find that Molly had been invited to Clara's final party and, in fact, was to be a guest at the dinner prior to the dance.

"I'm not a gudgeon," Clara said tartly, seeing John's surprise.  "I am perfectly aware that Georgia has formed a decided partiality for Miss Hooper."

"And you have no objections?"

"Oh, I have plenty of those," she said.  "It is my hope that this will prove to be nothing more than calf-love, but I know better than to place obstacles in their way.  Georgia is just stubborn enough to dig in her heels at the least sign of opposition, and your brother-in-law would back her in a trice.  At least Miss Hooper is presentable, unlike some of Cyprians your brothers dangled after."

John had to agree, for Molly's newly-gained wealth in conjunction with her innate sense of style combined to good effect, and while she would never be a diamond of the first water, she turned out well.  It was clear that Georgia thought so, too, and John had little doubt that their regard for each other would only grow. 

Of Mary he saw very little, which was a great source of relief to John.  Her mother had paid the obligatory morning call on them after their arrival in London, unaccompanied, and had imparted the news that Mary was much in the company of Lord Moriarty and his cohorts.  John didn't know what to say to that for repeated exposure hadn't improved his opinion of Moriarty or his husband, and it was with relief that he'd learned that Colonel Moran and his husband had returned to Ireland to attend his father's funeral.

He read the newspaper announcement out-loud to Sherlock as his husband puttered with one of his experiments.  " '...the death of Augustus Moran, Viscount Blessington' - Sherlock, that's odd, isn't it?  The same name as Trevalyan's benefactor and patient - his false name, not the real one.  I wonder if he saw it printed somewhere and decided on it.  I mean, it's not a common sort of name, like Smith or Jones."

Sherlock had been about to add a few drops of acid to the liquid in the beaker before him but now he paused, frowning.  "No, it's not.  I wonder..." 

His voice trailed off and John recognized the faraway look in his eyes.  Knowing that he'd get little response from his husband until he'd finished cogitating whatever mystery it was that had captured his attention, he laid down the paper and went in search of his daughter.   Helen had started smiling at the sight of her parents and John would freely admit that he was addicted to those smiles, so like Sherlock's.

The mystery of the dual Blessingtons slipped out of his thoughts, not to return until several months later.

 


	47. Part IV: Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King George visits Scotland, and someone makes a claim on the Watson estate.
> 
> An alternate version of the first part of this chapter, "Of Kings", is at [Chapter 7 of "Three Continents Watson" ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2330933/chapters/13302337). It includes porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Worldbuilding: Clothing& Tartans](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/13289941) has pictures of the Watson tartan, badge, and arms. There are also pictures of costumes from the time period, including Molly's opera dress and Sherlock's general "look". Alas, there are no pictures of John in a kilt - yet.
> 
> More information about King George's visit can be found on [ Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visit_of_King_George_IV_to_Scotland). For those keeping track, the Duke of Queensberry is John's 4th cousin, Sir Walter Scott is his 6th cousin, the Earl of Hopetoun is his 1st cousin, Lord John Hope is his 2nd cousin, and King George is his 9th cousin. Yes, John is really related to everyone.
> 
> As always, I am indebted to Ariane DeVere for [her transcripts.](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript)

**Of Kings**

With predictions of early storms affecting travel by ship, and partially to escape from their notoriety, John took his family back to Scotland at the end of July.  As Annie was once again dreadfully sick during their first day at sea and, having no other tasks to occupy his time, John took over the care of little Helen, to Sherlock's great amusement.  His initial clumsiness at changing her improved, however, and by the time they arrived at Leith he had managed to get more cereal _into_ her than _on_ her (and him).  
  
When they arrived in Scotland, Edinburgh was in the throes of preparation for the visit of King George, a historic event and the social occasion of Edinburgh's season.  John had been forewarned by Uncle Alex, a member of Sir Walter Scott's Highland Society, that Highland dress would be required for the Grand Ball.  Although it had been several centuries since the Watson had left the Highlands to settle in Edinburgh in service of his king, he had passed the clan tartan down the generations.  So John was spared the panic of the other lowland gentlemen who were now scrambling for a tartan and a kilt.   He had already been fitted for his kilt before they left for London - not that John was looking forward to wearing it.

John also didn't have to organize any clan presentations or displays, for like many of the lowland clans, the Watson clan was more a matter of name and less of the cohesiveness of the Highland clans.  He didn't have a bevy of clan members - the family hadn't even had a Piper in generations.  However, he had arranged with his estate manager that the Watson tartan and badge was to be available to those who wanted it, and his tenants and others beholden to Saughton proudly wore the Watson badge to the entertainments and illuminations in Edinburgh.   
  
For the first two days of the King's visit the emphasis was on the Highland regiments that had so caught the public's attention after the publication of Scott's _Waverly,_ so John was able to get away with his usual mode of dress.  On the third day, however, there was an afternoon levee at Holyrood Palace where the men were expected to be kilted, as would the King.  John reluctantly donned his new kilt, along with the blue superfine coat, black waistcoat, and shoulder plaid that Sir Walter had decreed was the appropriate daytime attire.  He was certain that he looked a fool, and the dubious looks from his new valet didn't allay his fears. 

It was with the certainty that he would be mocked by his husband that he joined Sherlock in the parlour.  Sherlock, of course, was exquisitely turned out in a new coat of green with a sash of the Watson tartan pinned to his left shoulder, and John envied him his dark green trousers.  His eyebrows did, indeed, go up when he saw John but there was a gleam in his eyes and instead of mocking words he said, "That form of dress is surprisingly becoming to you.  One starts to understand the appeal on the general public."  
  
Much heartened by his husband's approval, John joined the rest of his Peers at Holyrood Palace where they were presented to the King, along with the rest of the Scottish nobility in attendance.  King George praised their efforts on behalf of his brother, inviting them to "break their bread" with him at Dalkeith one evening so that he might hear more about the Silver Blaze case than had been in the papers, as John's account had yet to be printed.  As John had already been invited by both the Duke of Queensberry and Sir Walter to do just that the following Wednesday, he was pleased to accept the invitation. 

Sherlock was unusually and noticeably quiet during the entire event due, as he told John on the drive home, to his fear that if he opened his mouth he would be locked up for treason.  His scathing description of the King's attire sent John into helpless giggles, but he had to agree that the King had not appeared to advantage in a bright red tartan kilt, too short for decency and thus accompanied by pink pantaloons to conceal his legs.  However, Sherlock's comment that not every man could be as blessed with finely formed legs as John put him to the blush.

The next day they had the pleasure of Mycroft's company as the King was taking a day to recover from the events of the previous week.  Mycroft had been too occupied by his duties of late to pay more than a fleeting call on Baker Street so this visit was welcomed by everyone but Sherlock.  However, as Mycroft was full of praise for their daughter, Sherlock grudging admitted that his visit hadn't been too unpleasant.  Mycroft was delighted to see that his niece was now sitting up unassisted as well as babbling nonsense.  He predicted that Helen would be speaking before long, although he reminded Sherlock that he hadn't uttered a word until he could speak in a full sentence.  
  
On Wednesday they dined at Dalkeith Palace with King George, Sir Walter, and other assorted Scottish nobles.  The Duke of Queensberry and his grandmother, the Dowager, were gracious hosts and John was glad to renew their acquaintance.  Dinner was enjoyable, for although they were too low in precedence to be seated near their hosts or the King (which, considering his table manners, John thought might have been a good thing), the conversation was lively enough to keep even Sherlock's interest.  And after dinner, the King demanded the story of Silver Blaze, which John read aloud to great acclaim of both his story-telling and Sherlock's brilliance.  
  
Friday night was the highlight of the King's visit, the Peer's Grand Ball.  John once again donned his kilt, this time with a black velvet _coatee_ and waistcoat, as well as the black velvet cap with feathers to indicate his status as Clan Chief.  As his valet pinned the long plaid at his shoulder and adjusted the drape, John felt much more confident about his appearance, his only dread being the amount of dancing he would be forced to do.  He thought that Sherlock looked very fine, dressed in a white coat and breeches, with his waistcoat matching the sash pinned to his left shoulder.  John had no doubt that his husband would be very much sought after for dancing. 

When they arrived at the Assembly Rooms, John saw that it had been decorated to dramatic effect.   The music was lively, and the flowing wine contributed to the high spirits of the attendees.  King George didn't dance although he seemed to take great delight in watching the country dances and the colourful tartans on display.  As John had expected, Sherlock's hand was sought for nearly every dance, although John had had the foresight to claim several of the strathspeys in advance.  He danced once with Clara and caught sight of Georgia a few times, but most of his attention was on his husband, for watching him enjoy the dancing was a great pleasure.  

Although the King departed at midnight, John barely noticed because Sherlock caught his hand and pulled him, laughingly protesting, into a jig.  John was able to keep up, although his footwork was abysmal, but Sherlock's amusement was worth the embarrassment.  When a waltz followed the jig, John was more than happy to swirl his husband around the floor, and they left shortly afterwards, both pleasantly fatigued and a trifle bosky.  It seemed a fitting end to the King's visit.

 

* * *

 

**And Claims**

 

At the end of August, the King made a farewell appearance at Hopetoun and sailed from Queensferry to continue on his tour of the country.  Edinburgh society settled back into its usual routine which was predominated by hunting.  Grouse season was followed by duck and other waterfowl hunting, which John infinitely preferred above the foxes.  Sherlock had little interest in either, except for watching John demonstrate his prowess, but he was keenly involved with the harvesting of the honey from his hives.  It was one of the best crops they'd had in years, his innovations proving to be a success and, although the yield was small, there were a half-dozen little jars to take back to Baker Street in October.  
  
On the first day of September, the Watsons were settled in the library, enjoying a rainy afternoon before the fire.  Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, dividing his attention between the treatise on bee-keeping he was reading and his husband playing with their daughter. Annie had the afternoon off and John had declined the services of one of the maids in her place, opting to look after Helen himself. She had fed and napped, had just been changed, and was in a particularly good mood, chortling happily as John tickled her and played with her. 

Helen had delighted her parents by babbling "mama" and "dada", well before her age-mates, and Sherlock declared that this was due to his decision not to employ a wet-nurse.  John didn't argue the matter; he was just thankful that she was healthy and happy.  That he thought her brighter and prettier than other children as well was something that he refrained from saying in public (unlike Sherlock). 

John tossed Helen into the air once more, delighting in her giggles, and was pressing a kiss against the instep of her little foot when Turner announced the Apparitor for the Commissary Court of Edinburgh.  Puzzled, John rose and handed Helen over to Sherlock, then turned to greet the man standing in the library doorway.  
  
"Please come in," John said. "How may I be of service?"  
  
"Am I addressing John Watson, Earl of Saughton?" the man asked, doffing his hat and tucking it under his arm with great formality.  
  
"You are."  
  
The man proffered an envelope.  "My lord, this is a summons to appear before the Commissary Court of Edinburgh in Parliament Hall at ten o'clock on the 13th of September."  
  
John frowned as he accepted the envelope.  "May I inquire into what this concerns?"  
  
"I'm afraid that I am not at liberty to say, except that a matter concerning the Saughton inheritance has been placed before the consistory court," the Apparitor said.  "This is not a hearing, my lord, and you will not be required to testify.  At the time indicated, the Court will present their decision to all the parties involved in the matter."  
  
The man bowed to John again, replaced his hat, and turned to follow Turner out of the room.  John broke the seal on the summons, scanning the brief contents to see that they were nearly word-for-word what the man had said.  He turned and silently handed the summons to Sherlock, although he doubted that even he could find more information from it.  Sherlock's eyes flicked over the contents and then the outside of the envelope before handing it back.    
  
"An ecclesiastical seal," Sherlock said absently, gently removing the corner of the book that Helen was chewing from her mouth. "I'm not a particularly religious person - what is the purpose of a consistory court?"  
  
John shrugged.  "No idea.  I think that's where James's will was proved but I wasn't here at the time.  Uncle Alex would know better.  Harry might have some idea as well."  
  
Harriet, in fact, did have a very good idea as she told them when she rode over the next day, having also received a summons.  "They're involved with matrimonial and probate matters," she said after she'd admired Helen's new ability to roll from her back to her belly.  "They had to approve my marriage settlement with Clara so that the Lord Lyon could confer Dalmahoy on me."  
  
John frowned.  "What could possibly be an issue with my inheritance?  Unless this has to do with Helen - did they have to do something official when Georgia was born?"  
  
Helen, hearing her name, began babbling "dadada" and he scooped her into his arms for a noisy kiss that made her laugh.    
  
Harriet shrugged.  "If they did, they didn't tell us about it.  They certainly didn't call us into court.  Best have a word with Uncle Alex - he always has an ear to the ground for such things."  
  
Alexander Carnegie, when appealed to by the next post, hadn't heard anything but promised to look into it, and he also advised John to contact his cousin, Lord John Hope, to appoint him as legal counsel in the matter.  His cousin readily assented and John attempted to put the matter out of his head.

* * *

 

  
On the 13th of September, John and Harriet drove into Edinburgh, accompanied by their spouses.  As his husband, Sherlock was allowed to accompany John although Clara decided to visit Janet as her sister-in-law was in a blue mood after the loss of yet another nanny.  After leaving Clara at Old Saughton House, they drove into Edinburgh proper, to the Royal Mile where they entered Parliament Hall.  A clerk directed them to the courtroom used by the Commissary Court where they were greeted by the Apparitor and he escorted inside.  The room was surprisingly full for its small size, most of the people seemingly attached to the court although John could also see that the Lord Lyon and his staff had been included in the hearing. 

Alexander Carnegie was sitting in the back row of chairs, and John nodded his head in greeting to him.  He was surprised to see Sean Martin, his Head Gardener, sitting in the back row as well.  The man was obviously dressed in his Sunday best but looked awkward and ill-at-ease, twisting his soft cap between his hands.  
  
"Mr. Martin!" John said, stopping to greet the man.    
  
Martin rose to his feet, his face flushed with obvious embarrassment as he reluctantly shook John's hand.  "Beg pardon, m'lord.  I ha' no notion wha' Sarah 'n the Boy ware abou'.  You 'n yer brother have always been gud ta me 'n mine."  
  
"I'm glad you think so," John replied, puzzled.  Martin seemed too overcome to respond so John rejoined Harriet and Sherlock who were shaking hands with his cousin, John Hope, at the left-front table.  
  
"Lord Saughton," Hope said, shaking his hand.    
  
"John.  What in blazes is this about?"  
  
"I don't know," Hope admitted.  "The Court hasn't released any information to me.  This isn't a hearing, you see - you aren't personally the subject of their investigation.  Because of that, none of you will be called upon to testify or to answer questions.  However, should they ask anything, let me answer unless they question you directly.  I doubt that will be the case for the Court will already have collected their  information.  This should be just to announce their decision."  
  
"Their decision about _what_?"  
  
"Apparently James was married to another woman before Janet and might have a legal heir from that marriage."  
  
John gaped at his cousin, unable to believe what he was hearing.  Two years earlier, he would have welcomed this news but now, when the estate was doing so well and his family was settling into the house, to give it up would be a blow.  
  
"Who - " he began, but his question was answered before he could voice it as the clerk showed another party into the room.  John was stunned to see that they were Lord Moriarty and his husband, the former Colonel Moran, now Viscount Blessington.  They took their places at the other table, Moriarty smirking at them before taking his seat.  
  
"What are _they_ doing here?" Harriet hissed to John.  
  
There was no opportunity for more conversation even if John had known the answer as the Apparitor called the court to order.  John stood with the others as several robed and wigged men entered the room.  He recognized the man who sat at the chair with the Lord Lyon King of Arms's banner as a cousin of some degree, but none of the five men who sat at the bench were more than vaguely familiar.  Another man sat with them, wearing academic robes instead of judicial ones, but he was a complete stranger.  Several clerks carried scrolls of paper that they laid before the judges, and the registrar settled at the little table in the middle to begin recording.  
  
The man seated in the centre of the bench looked to either side to make sure his fellows were ready, then rose.  
  
"Let the record show that on this 13th day of September, this Commissary Court session was called to present our decision on the matter of James Watson vs. Sarah Murphy," the Chief Chancellor began. "Appearing for the Watsons are John Watson, 9th Earl of Saughton, Alpha, and Harriet Watson-Dalrymple, 2nd Earl of Dalmahoy, Alpha, represented by Lord John Hope.  Appearing for the claimant is James Moran, Baron Moriarty, Omega, supported by his husband, Sebastian Moran, Viscount Blessington, Alpha, represented by Sir Montague McNeill."    
  
"How on earth can Moriarty be involved?" John murmured to Sherlock as the Chancellor stated the names of the four assessors for the record.  
  
"I expect that we're about to find out," Sherlock replied.  His attention was fixed on the man sitting at the other table and John had a feeling that he already was two steps ahead of him in figuring this out.  
  
"The matter placed before this body was the recognition of a legal and binding marriage under the Scottish Law between James Watson, the son of a noble Scots family, and Sarah Murphy, the great-granddaughter of two noble Irish families, and the legitimization of the two offspring of their union," the Chancellor continued after taking his seat, reading from a document before him.  
  
"The facts of the matter are these: In 1796, at the age of twenty, Captain James Watson went with his regiment to Dublin.  There he became acquainted with Miss Sarah Murphy and the two conceived a mutual passion for each other.  Before his departure with his regiment to Gibraltar in 1797, he and Miss Murphy exchanged private vows.  A paper without a date, No. 1, produced by her contains solemn written promises to marry, following which they consummated this pledge.  Miss Murphy subsequently bore a son, whom she named Seamus.  Upon his return to Ireland in 1806, Major Watson renewed his vows, in paper No. 2, and purchased a domicile in which they both resided and where their second son, named Hamish was born.  Birth certificates for both children, giving Sarah Murphy as the mother and James Watson as the father, are papers 3 and 4.  
  
"In the summer of 1810, two events occurred: the death of Charles Watson, 6th Earl of Saughton, father to Major Watson, and the return of the regiment to Scotland.  Sarah Murphy and their two children accompanied Major Watson to Scotland and resided with him in Saughton House, his principal estate, until December of that year.  At that time, James Watson broke with Miss Murphy, bestowing upon her the property known as the Lodge, and persuading her to marry Sean Martin, the Head Gardener for the estate.  Subsequently, James Watson married Janet Ramsay.  
  
"The first matter to be determined by this Court is whether or not this union between James Watson and Sarah Murphy is legal according to the laws of Scotland, where this claim is being made and where all concerned parties currently reside, with the exception of the deceased James Watson.  To this point, we invited Sir William Scott, the esteemed justice who presided in the similar case of _Dalrymple vs. Dalrymple_ , to give his opinion on this matter."  
  
At this point, the elderly man dressed in academic robes rose and inclined his head to the bench.  "According to the Scottish Law and custom, that which is called an 'irregular marriage' without benefit of license or a religious ceremony can be claimed in three ways: as a simple declaration of vows before witnesses on Scottish ground, a promise to formalize their marriage vows followed by consummation of the union, or by 'cohabitation and repute'.  The second and third such methods apply in this case, as there are written declarations in the hands of both parties, and as they lived in a conjugal manner for several years."  
  
The Chancellor continued after Sir William resumed his seat.  "We have statements from several of Major Watson's fellow soldiers that they visited the couple in their home in Dublin and that Major Watson referred to Miss Murphy as his 'bonny wife'.  Indeed, it was their belief that the couple had been secretly married and were only keeping the matter secret from his father, whom they felt would disapprove.  In addition, Miss Murphy has produced letters written to her by the Major while he was on manoeuvres in which he calls her his 'dear wife' and expresses conjugal affection for her.  Finally, on the passenger manifest for the return of the regiment, it lists 'Major Watson & Wife & Two Sons', written in Major Watson's hand. We also have statements from the former household staff at Saughton House that Miss Murphy was given the rooms customarily appointed to the lady of the house and was treated by Lord Saughton as a wife.  It is clear that until December of 1810, Major Watson considered Miss Murphy as such."  
  
"The only question, then," said Sir William, "is whether the Scottish Laws apply in this case as during the majority of their union they resided in Ireland, not Scotland.  While the prevailing customs of a country usually apply to English nationals residing abroad, this is not always the case when it comes to matrimony.  It can be argued that the traditions of a Scottish noble residing  in another country should be honoured as such, and that as Major Watson regarded Miss Murphy as his wife and treated her in all respects as such that she should be considered, by law, his wife.  In addition, their relationship continued upon their return to Scotland in the same manner as it was conducted while living in Ireland, showing that by 'cohabitation and repute' they were man and wife." 

"Therefore, in light of this documentation and the statements given to this Court, we have determined that Major James Watson and Miss Sarah Murphy were married by Scottish Law, from at least June of 1810 when they both arrived in this country," said the Chief Chancellor.  "And by the same law, the children from their union are legitimized.  It is our determination that Seamus Murphy and Hamish Watson are the legal children of James Watson."  
  
Harriet muttered something under her breath that could have been a curse word.  
  
"Furthermore," he said, "as neither Major Watson nor Miss Murphy filed for annulment or divorce, their subsequent marriages are declared bigamous and invalid, and the contracts dissolved, and the children of both unions deemed illegitimate."  
  
John closed his eyes at this, sympathy for Sean Martin filling him.  
  
"Although bigamy is illegal and punishable by law, we do not recommend that either Janet Ramsay or Sean Martin be prosecuted as both contracted and married in good faith, and with no knowledge of this previous marriage."  
  
That was something, John thought, although he had a feeling that it was but a drop of water in a large bucket.  
  
"Therefore, we charge Alexander Carnegie, the executor of James Watson's estate, to bestow upon Sarah Watson nee Murphy both the dower lands and moneys to which she is entitled as his widow."  
  
_Oh hell_ , John thought.  Janet was not going to be pleased, stripped of her marriage, her money and her house in one fell swoop.   And Moriarty was looking more smug than ever, and John had no idea what he was even doing here.  
  
"As for the boys, they are each entitled to a son's share of the estate, as it was when their father died, not as it currently stands.  Lord John, Sir Montague, please consult with the executor, Alexander Carnegie, regarding this matter."  
  
_Good luck with that_ , John thought sardonically, recalling the dire straits that the estate was in when he inherited it.    
  
Lord John nodded but Sir Montague rose to his feet.  "And as to the inheritance of the estate?" he asked, with a bow to the chair where the Lord Lyon sat.  
  
"The inheritance remains the same," the Lord Lyon, Robert Hay-Drummond, replied.  
  
"That's impossible!" Moriarty snapped, jumping to his feet.  "I am his son and I am legitimate!  They just said so!"  
  
Sir Montague shushed him quickly and, with a scowl, Moriarty took his seat.    
  
John turned to his cousin and said, lowly, "I don't understand."  
  
Lord John nodded and rose to his feet.  "If you please, Sir, we would ask this venerable court to make clear Lord Moriarty's place in this matter."  
  
The Chief Chancellor nodded.  "Certainly.   Miss Murphy - rather, the Dowager Countess Saughton - has identified James Moriarty as her son, Seamus.  He was sent to his relatives in Ireland upon the marriage of his father to Miss Ramsay where he chose to adopt the Anglicised spelling of his first name.  Lord Moriarty has also provided documents from the Ulster King of Arms verifying his lineage, as well as his marriage lines."  
  
"Be that as it may," said Hay-Drummond, "Lord Moriarty is an Omega and the Watson charter is very specific.  Omegas can only inherit in absence of _any_ Alphas in the line of descent.  James, the 7th Earl of Saughton, had two legitimate surviving children, one Omega, Seamus, and one Beta, Hamish.  However, he had one surviving Alpha sibling, John, the current Earl of Saughton.  The Earl of Dalmahoy, present, is excluded from the Saughton inheritance by the terms of her marriage settlement, verified by the previous Lord Lyon."  He nodded in Harriet's direction.

"Upon the death of John, the 8th Earl of Saughton, his Alpha children will inherit in order of birth.  Should he fail to produce an Alpha heir, and since Lord Saughton has no eligible Alpha siblings and there are no surviving Alphas at any branch of the Watson tree, then the Alpha line will fail.  At that point, the title will go to his Omega offspring - or rather their spouses - should they survive him.  If he has no legitimate surviving Omegas then the inheritance will go back up the tree, to the Omega offspring of the 7th Earl, then to the Omega offspring of the 6th Earl, and so on, up the tree to the original title holder, Lord Richard of Saughton."  
  
John nodded, having heard all of this from Uncle Alex when he had inherited the title.  
  
"However, as Lord Saughton can verify, there are _no_ other leaves on this tree, other than Betas who are excluded from inheritance, even back to Sir Richard and his second son, Baron Dunfemline.  The Dunfemline and Muirhouse sub-septs have all failed as well.  As of this day, there are only two heirs to Saughton after the current Earl - first, Lady Helen Holmes-Watson, and second, James, Lord Moriarty.  After that, the title and lands revert to the crown."  
  
"Thank you, Lord Lyon," the Chancellor said.  "And thank you for coming, my lords.  Your counsels will receive a copy of our decision as well as the updated succession lines from the Lord Lyon?" He directed this as a question to the Lord Lyon who nodded.  "Thank you.  Instructions to the executor of the previous Earl of Saughton's estate will be given as well,"  he added with a nod to Alexander.  
  
He rose, followed by his fellow judges and the rest of the court, and they left the room while their staffs began conferring.  Looking furious, Lord Moriarty swept out of the room, even as his counsel was trying to talk with him.  John thanked his cousin for his assistance in the matter, shook hands with his uncle and promised to have him out to the house soon.  Then, with a word to Sherlock and Harriet about fetching their carriage, John headed out to Parliament Close.

Cartwright was waiting at the base of the statue of Charles II and at John's appearance he ran off to the inn where their coachman had stabled their horses.  While waiting for both the coach and the rest of his party, John turned back to Parliament House but stopped as he was confronted by Moriarty.  He, like John, was alone.

"Lord Moriarty," he said evenly.

"Uncle John," Moriarty said with a mocking little bow.  "Surprise.  I'll bet you never saw this coming."

John gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more than to smash the other man's face. "Welcome to the family - James."

"I suppose this is where I should offer my congratulations upon the birth of your precious little Omega daughter, Helen," Moriarty said, his smile all teeth and insincerity.  "You should take great care with her.  Saughton House has not been particularly healthy for children."

John's fear flared for a moment, swiftly replaced by fury.  "You would know about that.  I know _exactly_ what you did to little Jane."

Moriarty's face took on an ugly, threatening look.  "You are not clever, not like your husband, so I'd advise you _not to meddle_ in things that you don't _understand_." He took a step closer to John.  "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Uncle, to _you_?"

"Let me guess," John snapped.  "I die."

"N-no, don’t be _obvious_."  Moriarty snapped and then shrugged.  "I mean, I’m going to kill you anyway _some_ day. I don’t want to rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something... _special_. No-no-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll _burn_ you."  He stepped closer, his face inches away from John's.  "I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you."

John stared at him impassively but his jaw and his fists clenched in anger.  "What if I was to end you instead?  I could do it, you know.  I was a soldier."

"Then you could - perhaps - cherish the look of surprise on my face."  He made a look of astonishment for a moment before his expression returned to one of menace.  "But you wouldn't be able to cherish it for long.  Such a mistake, to have _pets_ that you care about, isn't it?  You've rather shown your hand there, Lord Saughton."

John growled, unable to stop the Alpha instinct at the threat to his family. 

Moriarty smirked and stepped back, smoothing down the front of his coat.  "Well, I'd better be off," he said.  "So nice to have had a proper chat."

Behind him John could hear Harriet calling out his name and he was aware of the rapid approach of his husband, but he refused to look away from Moriarty.  "Is that it, then?  Just going to threaten and run?"

"Oh, there is one other matter," Moriarty said as both Harriet and Sherlock reached them.  "Get that _whore_ and her _bastards_ out of my mother's house.  I'll give you three days - till Monday - to get her out before I have the bailiffs arrest her for trespass.  And she's not to take any of the belongings or I'll have her arrested for theft.  Especially the jewellery.  I think I'd look rather nice in the Watson coronet, don't you?"

"You're not entitled to the Watson jewels," John ground out.  "Not yet.  _I_ have those.  Anything that Janet has was given to her by James _personally,_ and is hers to keep."

Moriarty's eyes were cold and dead, but there was something in them that made John shiver.  "For now," Moriarty said, his voice soft and deadly.  "Good-bye, Uncle John.  You'll be hearing from me." 

He turned to Moran, taking his arm and walking away towards where the carriages waited.  John stared after him in impotent fury, barely aware that Sherlock was touching his arm and saying his name repeatedly.

"John. John.  _John_."

John turned his attention back to Sherlock, seeing the concern and questions on his face.  With his eyes he conveyed _Later_ , and Sherlock nodded once in response.  Then John turned to Harriet.  "The carriage will be here in a minute.  We'll stop for Clara - "

"Oh _bugger_ ," said Harriet, interrupting him.  "We'll have to tell Janet."

John nodded, his heart falling.  And for once he felt heartily sorry for Janet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a real hearing about a similar case called Dalrymple vs Dalrymple - and that would be Clara's great-uncle, the Earl of Stair. Sir William Scott presided and gave the decree, which can be found in [this legal discussion of the case ](http://www.uniset.ca/other/ths/2HagCon54.pdf). An easier to read summary can be found [here ](http://www.uniset.ca/other/ths/lnt_dalrymple.html). The Earl of Stair's current marriage was annulled and his previous one upheld, although they divorced shortly afterwards. As he had no children with either wife, the title went to a cousin, who also died childless and the title lapsed. In my story, it came to Clara's father instead of lapsing.


	48. Part IV: Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two women take the news from the Consistory Court in different yet similar ways, and those around them have to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Farmhouse at Saughton (also called Cammo House Farm) wasn't actually built until a century after this story and was first a golf clubhouse. Currently it is the subject of dispute as it is falling down but as a listed building can't be demolished. I have postulated an older farmhouse on the same site. 
> 
> [Friends of Cammo](https://www.facebook.com/Friends.of.Cammo/info/?tab=page_info) on Facebook has interesting pictures of the grounds, and they are trying to do a lot to preserve/improve the park. I donated to them, as after 2 years of writing this I feel a kinship.

As John had expected, Janet did not take the news well.  
  
She was with Clara and the children in the sitting room, listening to little Margaret playing a piece on the piano with a bored look on her face.  Margaret's playing faltered as her aunt and uncles were announced and she cast a nervous look at her mother.  
  
"That's lovely, dear, now run along to Nanny," Janet said, waving a dismissive hand at her daughter.  "Oh.  She's gone, isn't she?  Well, to the nursery - Maire will bring your tea up shortly."  
  
Margaret rose from the piano bench and dropped a little curtsey, then took her brothers' hands and led them out of the room with a little look back at her Aunt Clara.  
  
"Well, you took a great deal of time over whatever this business was," Janet said tartly, with a cool look at John while totally ignoring Sherlock.  "I'll ring for tea - "  
  
"Janet," Harriet said, taking a seat next to Clara.  "I'm afraid that we have something - difficult to tell you."  
  
"Something about James's will?" Janet said and glared at John.  "I suppose that you're trying to take something else away from me."  
  
"Janet, proof was presented to the Consistory Court that James was married to another woman," Harriet said gently.  
  
She frowned.  "James was a widower?"  
  
"No," John said, coming forward to sit in a chair across from her.  "James was still married to this other woman when he married you.  He was married to Sarah Murphy."  
  
Janet stared at John in disbelief.  "You're lying.  Sarah was his mistress, yes - James told me that.  That horrible boy, Seamus, was his, and Hamish.  But it was over before he married me.  He provided for them and she married that gardener, Martin."  
  
"They were married under Scottish law," Harriet began.  "James may not have realized it."

"I'm sorry, Janet, but it's true," John added.  "The court found in Sarah Murphy's favour, and they invalidated your marriage."  
  
"No!" Janet said stridently, standing so suddenly that she knocked over the chair she'd been sitting in.  "You're lying!" She turned toward John.  "You're doing this!  You were always jealous of James - you've always hated me!  You're lying!"  
  
She flung herself at John, hands raised and fingers clawed to scratch at him, but to everyone's surprise, Clara caught her first.  She delivered a stinging slap and then, as Janet burst into tears, took her into her arms.  
  
"There, there, dear," Clara said soothingly.  "I know this is a shock.  Let's go upstairs and you can lie down for a bit."  
  
Janet clung to her, weeping, and Clara gave both Harriet and John a speaking look as she passed them.  Looking past into the hallway, John caught sight of the three children frozen beside the stairs and, from the oath that Harriet muttered, she did too.  
  
"I'll see to the children," Harriet said to John.  "You take the staff."  
  
John sighed but nodded and went back into the sitting room to ring for the butler.  When Price arrived, John briefly explained the situation and added, "Have the staff pack the Countess's personal belongings, and the children's.  I will order a wagon for Monday morning to convey them - "  
  
John paused, realizing that he had no idea where Janet could go.  Her father was deceased and her young brother and her mother had leased out their home and moved to Bath.  He couldn't offer her a place at Saughton, even if there hadn't been harsh feelings between them - it would be too awkward for her to live there.  And until her finances were settled, she couldn't afford to set up her own establishment.   
  
" - well, we'll sort something out before then," John finished.  "The new mistress will take possession on Tuesday."  
  
"Very good, my lord."  
  
"Will you be going with the Countess?" John asked.  It wasn't her title, not any more, but "Lady Janet" still sounded wrong to his ears.  
  
"Certainly, my lord," Price said with a slight bow.  "If you will excuse me, my lord, there is much to be done.  I will send Danvers up to tend to her Ladyship."  
  
John turned back to Sherlock who, with unusual prudence (or more likely boredom), had stayed out of the whole confrontation.  He was surveying the sitting room which had been renovated since John's last visit in the bilious shade of green that appeared to be Janet's newest favourite.  Sherlock turned to John saying, "John, your relations - with the exception of Archie and Georgia - are dull and fatiguing beyond belief.  May we return home at some point soon?"  
  
John sighed.  "I hope so, once the household is settled."  
  
A few minutes later, Clara and Harriet came down the stairs.  "Janet is laid down on her bed with some of her drops to ease her palpitations, and Danvers is seeing to her.  The housemaid is with the children, so there is nothing more to be done here today."  
  
John nodded.  "I'll make arrangements for the transportation of the furniture, but have you thought about where they are to go?"  
  
"With us," Clara said firmly, giving Harriet a Look to keep her from protesting. "Addistoun Dower House is just sitting empty - Mother disliked the size of it.  It will be perfect for Janet and the children."    
  
She went to fetch her wrap from the footman and John turned to Harriet.  "I'm sorry, Harry."  
  
Harriet sighed and waved away his apology.  "It's all right, Johnny.  She couldn't go to Saughton - not with the Lodge right there to remind her.  Addistoun is far enough away and she won't bother me much - Janet generally ignores me.  And Clara likes her in general, except for the way she ignores her children."  
  
John nodded in agreement but he couldn't help feeling guilty for the relief he felt that Janet would not be his problem.

* * *

After dropping Harriet and Clara back at Dalmahoy and making plans to meet Harriet on Monday at the Dower House, John at last ordered the coachman to drive them home.  It had been a long day full of unpleasant shocks and he wanted nothing more than a warm meal and a quiet evening by the fire.  
  
When they turned into the Long Drive, John was surprised to see what appeared to be the entire Martin family, sans the mother, gathered in the Lodge's yard.  Mr. Martin was putting bundles onto a large pushcart and the two older children, no older than twelve by his reckoning, were lashing them down.  The younger children were bundled in several layers of clothing even though the afternoon was still warm.  The boy who had nearly run under his horse's hooves two years earlier was holding a young child and his face looked pinched and sad instead of happy.  John had seen similar sights in the Pyrenees during the War, villagers loading all they had as quickly as they could to escape the ravages of war, but never expected to see such a sight on his own land.    
  
"The Lodge," he said, dismayed.  "James gave it to Sarah; Martin must have told her the result of the court case and she told him to leave. He won't have a home."  
  
"Nonsense," Sherlock said.  "I have no doubt that you won't rest until he is settled somewhere."  
  
John looked at him, startled, then smiled.  "You know me too well."  
  
"Of course," Sherlock replied smugly.  
  
John impulsively leaned over and kissed his husband's check, then stepped down from the carriage.  
  
"Martin, I'm so sorry," he said to the gardener as he crossed to John and removed his cap.  "Where are you going?"    
  
"Dinnae ken fur certain, m' laird ," Martin replied.  He jerked his head towards the Lodge where John could see the former Mrs. Martin standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.  As she saw John look her way she scowled and went into the cottage, slamming the door behind her.  "Th' missus dinnae think tis proper tae be living neist ilk ither as th' hoose is hers ."  The same pinched look was on his face as his son's.  "Dinnae mynd fur masell bit tis the bairns a'm fretted aboot."  
  
John's jaw nearly dropped.  "She is turning out her children as well?"  
  
"They're bastards, ye see," he said simply.  "She thinks huvin thaim wi' her wull harm her guid name."  
  
"Don't you worry, Martin," John said firmly.  "We will find you a new home - I have no doubt that Wimmering will have just the place in mind, and we will talk with him tomorrow morning.  But for tonight, you and your children are coming up to the House to stay."    
  
Martin's jaw dropped.  "Ye'r nae serious, m' laird."  
  
"Entirely."  He scooped up one of the smaller girls, smiling at her.  "How would you like to ride in the big carriage, love?" he asked her.  
  
Her eyes widened in incoherent delight and she leaned close to press a smacking kiss against his cheek.    
  
John laughed and looked over at Martin.  "I think that a full stomach and a warm bed would ease some of the pain of moving for the little ones, don't you?  Martin nodded dumbly.  "It's settled, then."  
  
Cartwright jumped down from the carriage, helping the older Martin boy untie the bundles from the cart and store them in the luggage box, while Martin lifted the children into the carriage.  He swung up to sit next to the coachman while John climbed back inside.  It was a bit snug with six children and two grown men, but with Sherlock and John each taking one of the younger children on their laps and the eldest girl - Sorcha, she said shyly - holding little Muire, they managed.  
  
If Turner was surprised to see a small tribe of children tumble out of the carriage, he hid his shock well.  Mrs. Turner was equally unperturbed to be told to prepare three of the bed-chambers for the Martin family, merely dropping a curtsey and leading the way.  Sherlock took Muire up to the nursery as he was on the way there to see to Helen.  John sent one of the maids to inform Cook that the Earl and Countess of Dalmahoy were not dining with them, that the Martin family was instead, and they would dine in the kitchens instead of the dining room.  Then he went to pen a message for Cartwright to take to Wimmering.  
  
Dinner that night was a merry meal, all of them seated around the staff dining table to share a less elegant meal than Cook had planned to suit the Countess's tastes but no less delicious for its simplicity.  The Martin children soon lost their shyness.  Duncan and little Johnny were all open-mouthed wonder for Sherlock's story about the Baskerville hound while Sorcha watched Cook move around the kitchen with keen interest.  John resolved to speak to her and her father about hiring on as Cook's assistant.  Morag and Hannah were all wide-eyed at having pudding when it wasn't a holiday and would likely have had upset stomachs if John hadn't been keeping an eye on the servings of treacle tarts.    
  
Finally, with the children stuffed to bursting and starting to droop with sleep, John began guiding them towards the stairs where Annie and one of the maids were waiting to help put the children to bed.  Martin followed carrying little Hannah, half asleep on his shoulder, but paused to look back at John.    
  
"Thank ye, m' laird. I willnae forgit yer kindness."

* * *

  
Wimmering arrived after breakfast, accompanied by his wife.  He did, indeed, know of just the place to suit the Martin family.  The Farmhouse, as it was called, was one of the original houses on the Saughton estate, rejected by John's ancestor as not grand enough for the family.  His stable manager, Ross, had lived there with his large family but the children had all married and his wife had died earlier that summer, so he had gone to live with his married daughter.  It stood empty and Wimmering had wanted to put someone reliable in charge of the place.  It was a matter of minutes before the matter was settled, with a tenancy agreement signed between John and Sean Martin.  John had also stipulated that the tenancy was to be carried on to succeeding generations of the Martin family, should they wish it, so that none of them would have to worry about being without a home again.  
  
Martin was clearly bewildered but pleased by the abrupt change in fortunes and so grateful that John thought he'd never stop thanking him.  It was Mrs. Wimmering who got things moving as gently, but firmly, she steered the Martin family towards the door.  There was much to be done to get them settled into their new house, what with the next day being Sunday.  She promised them a casserole for dinner, as there wouldn't be time to get in groceries, and that she would find a nice woman from the village to "do" for them as the children were too young to take up much of the family's cooking and cleaning.    
  
The futures of the three eldest children were also set, for Cook and Sorcha came to an agreement that the girl would come to work in the kitchen half-days, and that kindly Mrs. Campbell would not only train Sorcha in cooking but teach her to read and write as well.  The eldest boy, Duncan, would become his father's apprentice when he left the village Grammar School at the end of the year and Johnny, who was keen on horses, would be taken on by old Ross during his free time, with an eye to training there when he left school in two years.  
  
And so it was with a sense of accomplishment that John sat down that night in front of the fire with his husband and daughter, for a belated peaceful evening.

* * *

John returned to Old Saughton House on Monday morning and was pleased to see that Price, the butler, was supervising the loading of the wagons that John had ordered.  There were a few items of furniture that Janet had inherited from her parents or had purchased since her move, as well as household goods and personal items, although the majority of the furnishings would remain behind.    
  
Harriet drove up in her curricle a few minutes later.  She handed over the reins to one of the tiger and jumped down.  "Where is Lady Janet?" she asked.  "I'm surprised that she isn't on hand to watch that her precious furnishings are properly handled."  
  
John privately reflected that Janet talked a great deal about managing matters but in actuality did little herself, but then he admonished himself for ill-thinking.  "She probably felt that it was too painful for her to observe."  
  
"Her ladyship was not feeling well at breakfast, so she went up to lie down until the carriage is ready," Price replied repressively.  He signalled to Danvers, Janet's maid, who was carefully wrapping a crocodile jewel case and tucking it under the seat of the wagon.  "Danvers, please let her Ladyship know that Lord Dalmahoy is here to convey her to Addistoun."  
  
Danvers gave John her usual disapproving look and disappeared into house, only to return a short time later with an anxious look on her face.    
  
"Lady Janet has locked herself into her room, my lord," she said to John.  "She won't answer the door but I heard her groaning.  I'm afraid she might be ill."  
"Fancies herself ill is more like," Harry muttered under her breath.    
  
John thought it very likely, knowing Janet, and called the two footmen to follow as he and Harry followed Danvers up the stairs.  Harriet knocked on the door and called Janet's name but there was no answer.  John tried the door handle and found it locked so he turned to the footmen and told them to break it down.  Inside the room, Janet was lying across her bed as if she'd fallen back onto it, moaning a little as if in pain.  A paper was clutched in one hand and a bottle in the other.  

John hurried to her side and checked her pulse and then her eyes, seeing that they were dilated.  "She's drugged.  Laudanum," he said and looked over at Danvers.  "Fetch a basin. Now. She's taken an overdose."  
  
"On purpose," Harriet said in alarm, reading the note.  "She says here that she can't live with the shame - John! she's given it to the children as well!"  
  
"Quickly, Harry!" John ordered as he pulled Janet into a sitting position.  "Run up to the nursery.  Bring the children down here, and pray that we're not too late."  
  
Harriet left at a run, taking one of the footmen with her while John ordered the other to fetch the medical bag he kept in the carriage. Telling Danvers to be ready with the basin, he quickly thrust his fingers down Janet's throat and then bent her over so that she wouldn't choke while vomiting.  She batted at him weakly as he repeated the motion until she had brought up everything in her stomach.  When only bile came up, he laid her back down on the bed and wiped his hands.  
  
"I'll need a pitcher of saline water, quickly," he told Danvers tersely. She nodded and hurried away with the dirty basin, just as Harry entered the room.  
  
"They're fine, Johnny," Harriet told him, and John felt weak with relief.  "Janet brought them hot chocolate for a treat but they hadn't drunk it yet.  I think it would be best to take them on to Dalmahoy; they don't need to see their mother like this.  Johnny - "  Harriet paused, looked at Janet who was muttering and shifting restlessly on the bed.  "Meg said they didn't like the way that Mummy makes the chocolate, that it's too bitter."  
  
They exchanged a grim look but didn't have time for more as Janet sat up, shrieking and crying out before falling back onto the bed.  Harriet hurried out as the footman and Danvers came back in.  John removed a lavage kit from his bag and, after instructing the footman to hold Janet up in a sitting position, he fed the tube down Janet's throat.  After checking that it had entered her stomach instead of her lungs, he poured a small amount of the saline water through the tube and then suctioned it out.  He repeated it until he felt that he had done all he could in that area before removing the tube and setting it aside to be cleaned later.  Janet seemed a little more conscious although clearly delirious.  
  
"We need to take her to hospital," he said to Danvers. 

The woman nodded and wrapped a blanket around her mistress before the footman lifted her into his arms.  John grabbed his medical bag and followed, supervising as Janet was quickly placed inside his carriage, Danvers holding her insensate mistress while John drove straight into Edinburgh and to the University's hospital.  And as he drove, he tried not to think that it might have been kinder if he had let Janet die.

* * *

  
Hours later, weary and fighting against a bleakness that he hadn't felt in years, John drove his carriage along the carriage way to Saughton House.  It appeared that Janet would survive, fiercely protected and nursed by her devoted maid, but she was still delirious and weak and there was some question as to whether her liver might have suffered damage.   What was clear, however, was that her mind had weakened and that she could not be allowed to live on her own again.    
  
Nor could she be trusted with her children.  Now that the greatest danger was past, John could allow himself to think about what Harriet had told him.  John might not have been a genius like Sherlock, but he could put two and two together to arrive at four.  Now he could recall how dull and listless he had thought James's three surviving children were when he'd first met them, and he cursed himself for not looking deeper - he was a doctor, after all.  Now he could think about the small graves in the cemetery beside his brother's, little John and baby James who had come down with an odd fever in the year before James's death, and George who had died only days before his father.  He could think about Sherlock's words to Janet, that she hadn't wanted children but was too conventional to tell James so.  He thought about how Janet used her various aches and illnesses to get sympathy from others and wondered: could she have used the illness of her children to do the same?  Had James realized that and, in the end, taken his own life (or asked someone to shoot him) because he couldn't live with the knowledge that Janet had killed their children?  
  
He realized that his horse had stopped before the house and, feeling a weariness beyond his years, he stepped down from the carriage and climbed the stairs.  Instinctively, he made for the small parlour where he knew that Sherlock would be at this hour.  
  
He stood in the shadow of the stairway arch for a long moment, observing Sherlock as he sat on the floor and coaxed Helen to reach for the soft toy that he dangled before her, both laughing at the play.  Then, unable to bear it another moment, he strode across the room and scooped Helen up into his arms, pressing his nose against her hair and her neck, breathing in her sweet scent.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Sherlock - " John began and then, to his horror, he felt his throat tightening.  "Sherlock, I - "  
  
Warm arms came around him, wrapping him up in comfort and support.  "Hush," Sherlock's voice said in his ear.  "You can tell me later.  For now, rest."  
  
John nodded weakly and laid his head against his husband's shoulder.  Sherlock was terrible at understanding emotions, often seemed bewildered by sentiment, but he had somehow known just what John needed in this moment.  He closed his eyes, breathing in the dual scents of Sherlock and Helen, and grieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this time period, it was quite usual for young boys not of the gentry to finish school at 11 or 12 and to take up a trade. Girls were rarely educated outside of the home. The Martin family was real, and James really did bring home his Irish mistress and their son, James, and set her up in the Lodge, where she married John Martin a few months later. The Martin children's names (and ages at this point) are Sorcha or Sarah (11), Duncan (10), Seanaidh or Johnny (9), Morag (8), Hannah (5), and Muire (2). Although Morag and Muire died in childbirth in their twenties, the others all lived to a ripe old age and Sorcha built a memorial stone to her father but, oddly enough, not her mother. James Watson or Hamish Martin did inherit the Old Home Farm which is now the location for the Edinburgh Zoo.


	49. Part IV: Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of family turmoil, John and Sherlock attempt to achieve some normality in their lives, even as they sort through the new clues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! It's been a crazy month, and then I became obsessed with the new plans of Saughton House that I received. Check out Chapters 3 & 4 on Worldbuilding to see the changes - and I have slightly modified bits of past chapters (most notably the tour John gives Sherlock). It isn't necessary to reread if you just want to glance at the plans instead.
> 
> Also, comments about the Irish are not my own beliefs but reflect the prejudice of the period.
> 
> EDIT: The Moriarty-Moran chart is up in [Worldbuilding, Chapter 19](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325950/chapters/14183692) . It's a little blurry because of the image (click to open it and enlarge), but once the story is done I will have a link to a PDF version, but that will contain spoilers.

When John had calmed down a bit, enough to release his husband and daughter from his death-grip, Sherlock took Helen up to the nursery while John rang for tea.  He asked Mrs. Taylor to set it up in Sherlock's bedchamber, feeling that the news he had to tell was better told in private.  While he thought well of his household staff, it was only human nature to spread interesting gossip, and Janet's three children would have a hard enough life without rumours following them.    
  
He could feel Sherlock's eyes assessing him when he entered although his husband didn't say anything as he shed his coat and cravat, pulling on his favourite blue dressing gown before joining John before the fire.  John handed him his cup of tea, sweetened the way he liked it, then added milk to his own cup before sitting down across from Sherlock.  
  
"How did she do it?" Sherlock asked, helping himself to a few biscuits from the plate.  "Insufficient poison?  Partial drowning?"    
  
John nearly dropped his tea cup, gaping at Sherlock in surprise.  "How did you - "

"Obvious.  Janet thrives on attention.  I imagine that Clara will be waiting on her hand and foot, coddling her - " He broke off and frowned at John.  "She hasn't actually _managed_ to kill herself, has she?"  
  
"No," John said, carefully setting his cup on the saucer even though his hand was shaking.  "She tried.  Laudanum.  She's in hospital now..."  He scrubbed his face with his hands and said, lowly, "Did you know about the children?"  
  
"What about the children?" Sherlock asked sharply, setting his own cup down sharply.  
  
"She's been drugging them, laudanum in their hot chocolate."  He looked up at Sherlock as he drew in a sharp breath.  "They're fine.  They didn't drink it - they said that it always tastes bitter.  Sherlock, the others..."  
  
"No," Sherlock said firmly.  "She didn't kill her children."  
  
"How can you be certain?"  
  
"Women primarily kill their children for two reasons: gain or despair.  There was every indication that she enjoyed her life with your brother and as mistress of this house, so that rules out despair.  Even this most recent disaster wasn't without it's silver lining - she hated the Dower house and relished the idea of being closer to Clara, her chief sympathizer.  That leaves gain. She had _nothing_ to gain from the deaths of her children, quite the opposite.  If anything, her Beta children would have been the targets, not the Alphas, for if your nephews had survived, any of the three would have inherited the title and she would have remained here as their trustee."  
  
"You said yourself that she craves attention.  Hell, _Harry_ said it the first night I returned here - said that Janet likes playing the martyr."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "And there are some women who poison their children for the praise they get while nursing them back to health and, occasionally, the sympathy they receive after their deaths.  However, Janet _never_ nursed her children - she said herself that she couldn't bear to see them while they were sick.  And while I imagine that she did enjoy the sympathy she received, it wouldn't have been enough incentive."  He paused.   "I have no doubt that she has dosed her remaining children with 'Mother's Helper' or another such tonic, particularly when she was between nannies - Janet has no patience for children, even her own."  
  
"She left a damn note!"  
  
"What did it say?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"What does it _matter_?  She tried to kill herself and her children!"  
  
"John. What did the note _say_?"  
  
John sighed.  "I don't know.  Harry read it - she probably has it still."    
  
"Then I shall look at it tomorrow when we go to Dalmahoy and you shall have your answer," Sherlock said briskly.  "In the meantime, you do yourself no good by assuming blame.  You weren't even in the country at the time of the children's deaths."  
  
"James was," John said bitterly.    
  
"James did _not_ commit suicide," Sherlock told him.  "He was murdered - of that I have no doubt.  And by an expert marksman with a cool nerve and experience with death.  Not your sister - nor that drunk, Sir Eustace.  I would say it was a military man, and one who had access to your brother's guns.  He took one of them, shot your brother from a distance, and swapped that rifle for your brother's so that it looked like he'd shot himself."  He paused, looking at John.  "And yes, I'm certain."  
  
John held his gaze for a long moment.  "Thank you."  
  
Sherlock nodded once in reply.  "What will happen to her now?"  
  
John sighed.  "The dose she took wasn't enough to kill her but she's suffering from severe dysphoria and hallucinations.  She's unlikely to be able - or allowed - to live on her own again.  It's likely the Asylum at Saughtonhall - and that's not related to us except very indirectly.  And then there are the children."  
  
"I expect Clara will have something to say about them," Sherlock said.  "She loves them, it is clear.  And they adore her - that is also clear, as they look to her for approval if she is in the room, not their mother.  She will have the house full of children that she's always wanted."  
  
"Do you think they will be fine?"  
  
"I think they'll be better than 'fine'.  Under her influence, they may even come to be less boring.  Georgie and Archie are the most interesting young people I've ever met, aside from Wiggins, and it must be something more than just Watson genetics, as excellent as they are."  
  
John couldn't help grinning at that.  "Was there a compliment somewhere in there?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, John."  Sherlock frowned down at his teacup.  "My tea has gone cold."  
  
John's grin softened.  "Well, we can't have that." 

He poured a fresh cup, sweetening it to Sherlock's taste, and handed it over. Oddly enough, he felt better, and could sit down to dinner with his husband with something approaching a normal appetite.  Still, before he went down to his meal, he paid a visit to the nursery and spent a long time watching his sleeping daughter in her crib.

* * *

The next morning, John drove Sherlock and Helen over to Dalmahoy in the curricle.  The air was becoming distinctly more crisp as fall deepened, and Sherlock spent the drive telling John about the preparations he was making to ready the hives for winter.   John couldn't help comparing this drive to the one they'd made the previous year, when Sherlock had been so steeped in depression that John had feared for his husband's life.  Now, not only was Sherlock healthy and (John hoped) happy, but their infant daughter was nestled snugly in his arms, looking at the world around her with interest.  John couldn't help feeling thankful for the difference.  
  
Harry welcomed them in the entry hall and led them to her study.  "Clara will be down shortly.  We've had Dr. McKellan out to look over the children - Janet's children - this morning.  How is she doing, John?"  
  
"She was resting when I left the hospital yesterday," he replied.  "Not easily, they had to restrain her.  She's experiencing hallucinations and is barely conscious, but she's alive."  
  
"And her prognosis?"    
  
John sighed.  "Time will tell, but she'll never be able to live alone again.  That will be a decision for her mother and brother to make.  She'll most likely be placed in Saughtonhall Asylum - "  
  
"No," Clara said, entering the room.  She crossed to sit next to Sherlock and smiled down at Helen, sitting on his lap.  He obligingly passed Helen to her and she nuzzled her niece's cheek, making her giggle.  "I'll write to Lady Ramsay and consult with her, but I believe the best course of action will be to place her in Addistoun House, with attendants to look after her there.  It's her only hope for recovery; you know what those places are like, John."  
  
John had to admit that she had a point.  "But not with the children," he said firmly, living his chin to stare her down.  "I will not allow her to have them in her grasp again."  
  
"No," Clara agreed, looking up from her adoration of her niece.  "We will keep the children - won't we, Harriet?" she asked, looking towards Harry in appeal.  
  
Harry smiled and crossed to take her hand.  "Of course we will," she said fondly, smiling at her wife.  "You can count on us to give them a good home, John."  
  
"I know that you will," John replied.  "If there is anything that we can do to assist you, please let us know.  I have already written to Uncle Alex about returning Janet's dowry to her from the estate - we can well afford it - but I will suggest that _you_ be made trustee of it, Harry.  It should be more than enough to pay for her support and care, and I will see that the children are dowered.  James might have made a mare's nest of matters but there's no reason they should suffer."  
  
"Speaking of which," Sherlock interrupted, "do you have the letter written by Janet?" 

Harry nodded and left the room to fetch it, and John turned to Clara.  "What is the news from the doctor?"  
  
"The children don't appear to have been significantly harmed by whatever Janet did," Clara replied.  "Margaret is a trifle lethargic but whether that is her nature or a residual effect isn't certain.  Dr. McKellan will check them again at the start of the year."  
  
"What I want to know is what you intend to do about that little toad, Moriarty," Harry asked as she returned to the room and handed Sherlock the letter.  "I wouldn't put it past him to move into the Lodge and sit on your doorstep to annoy the life out of you."  
  
"Surely not!  It's too small for a gentleman - and Martin will be living there." Clara said, returning Helen to Sherlock and rising to pour out tea for all of them.   
  
"The new Dowager put Martin and the children out," John said.  "Wimmering found them another place at the Home farm."  
  
"The children, too?" Clara asked, dismay on her face as she handed John a cup of tea.  "What a horrible mother she is!"  
  
John refrained from saying that James had terrible taste in women, remembering at the last moment that James was Archie's father.  He gave Sherlock a side-look to make sure that he didn't say that but it seemed that something else was on his mind as he frowned over the letter while trying to hold it away from Helen's grasping fingers.  John set down his cup and took his daughter, giving her his watch to play with instead.  Sherlock didn't appear to notice and the back of John's neck prickled.

"Sherlock?"

"There is something...odd in the wording of this," Sherlock said, silently mouthing the words as he read them.  "It doesn't have quite the rhythm of her speech, and I would have expected Janet to dwell more on her own wrongs.  'I cannot bear to live with the shame' is too brief of a lament, and as for 'naught will the children suffer', it is oddly worded."

"She might have already taken the laudanum before writing it," John pointed out. 

"Perhaps."  He looked over at Harry.  "May I hold onto this?  I might be able to make further deductions after I've studied it longer."

Harry made a dismissive gesture.  "I have no need of it, so you're more than welcome to keep it.  I'd rather not have it in the house where the children might come across it - you wouldn't believe how clever they are about sniffing out mysteries."  
  
"Speaking of children," Sherlock said, "would Archie like to come to us for a few weeks?  I imagine that your governess will have much on her hands, and while I admire Miss Hunter's fortitude, perhaps she shouldn't be taxed too much.  And the children might like a little undivided attention from you, Clara."  
  
"Archie would be delighted," Harry said, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.  "He and Georgie are visiting with Clara's Mama for a few days; I'll speak with him about it when I fetch him home tomorrow."  
  
John gave Sherlock a surprised look.  "I thought you were eager to return to London at the start of October."  
  
Sherlock made a face.  "Lestrade reports that the criminal classes are deadly dull at present.  And Mrs. Hudson writes that there's been an issue with the gutters detaching from the roof that requirs repairs.  I thought we might remain here until the end of the year, then spend the rest of the winter and spring in London rather than going back and forth."  
  
John frowned slightly in thought and nodded.  "It's a good idea - less winter travel for Helen.  I want to look into a few improvements to the house here, too; we should turn the bedrooms on the upper floor into guest rooms as it'll be some time before our children advance from the nursery."  
  
"Yes, having Mycroft across the parlour from us during his last visit was too close," Sherlock agreed.  "Even having a floor between us might be too much."  
  
"James complained about that as well," Harry said, sitting down with her cup of tea.  "I think he had plans drawn up to add onto the north side of the house - guest rooms and larger servants' quarters."  
  
John's frown deepened.  "I saw that cornerstones were laid but I haven't found any plans."  He wasn't certain how he felt about undertaking any major changes to the house, especially given the narrow escape from losing it due to James' excesses, but it was true that guest-space was limited. 

Talk turned to the upcoming holiday season and the annual Hogmanay party that Clara hosted for the gentry of the county.  Since they would be present this year, she seized the opportunity to ask Sherlock to be the 'first foot', over John's protest that Sherlock disliked such folk traditions.

"Nonsense," Clara said briskly.  "What's the point of having a tall, dark-haired man in the family if you can't make use of him?"  At Harry's snicker over this, she glared in her direction.  "Really, Harriet.  You know what I mean by that."

Rather to John's surprise, Sherlock agreed and appeared fascinated by Clara's description of his duties.  In fact, as they drove home he regaled John with instances in which knowledge of local superstitions and traditions might have aided in the apprehension of criminals.  John only listened with half an ear, his thoughts still on Janet's children and the odd note.  In fact, he half-suspected that Sherlock's lecture was aimed at distracting him and, grateful for the attempt, he tried to give Sherlock more of his attention.

However, as they passed by the Lodge, John glanced over at the property and his attention was turned into another direction. There was no sign of movement in either the house or yard and the curtains were drawn across the windows, making it difficult to tell whether the place was deserted or not.  He wondered if Sarah had already moved into the Dower house and if Moriarty would really choose to settle in this small house when he no doubt had a better estate in Ireland.  And, not for the first time, he puzzled over what had prompted Moriarty and his mother to bring the matter forward now instead of at any other point in the last twelve years.  It was inexplicable and worrisome, and he couldn't help fretting over the matter.  
  
When they reached the house, Sherlock turned Helen over to her nanny for her nap and then, to John's surprise, walked around the side of the house.  John hesitated for a moment, wondering if Sherlock wanted to be left alone, but then Sherlock called his name impatiently.  He followed and found Sherlock studying the footings that had been laid behind the current house.  
  
"I had wondered what these were," Sherlock said.  He spun around and looked out over the lawn.  "A conservatory on the ground floor looking out on this aspect would get excellent light."  
  
"Then you think we should expand?"  
  
"Of course."  Sherlock looked over John intently.  "Oh.  You are reluctant to spend what you still view as 'my money' on improvements to the estate that aren't essential.  Ridiculous, John, but if it helps then think of it as improving Helen's home."  
  
"Which she won't even be aware of for many years?" John asked him, both amused and irritated by his husband's insight.  "Very well; I'll see what plans were drawn up - Wimmering probably knows."  
  
"While we're talking about improvements, I would like to create a walled garden.  The bees are not prospering as they should where they are, and I've had my eye on another area for relocation.  And possibly a greenhouse."  
  
Intrigued, John asked Sherlock to show him where he had in mind.  They spent the next hour walking the estate while Sherlock pointed out the areas that he'd had in mind for improvements.  And although John was still reluctant to do anything extravagant to the estate, he couldn't help being pleased that Sherlock was so interested in the place.  Baker Street, yes, he could comprehend Sherlock's interest in it - it had been his before it was John's and it would be his when John was gone, should he precede Sherlock.  But Saughton was John's and his heir's, could only be Sherlock's in trust, so his appreciation meant a great deal.  John found himself agreeing to each of the suggestions, and when their walk took them by the Home farm, he stopped to see if Wimmering knew about the plans for the house.    
  
Wimmering did and produced them, as well as supplying the name of the architecture firm that had drawn them up.  Sherlock spread them over the kitchen table, frowning as he deciphered the drawings.  
  
"This won't do _at all_ ," Sherlock muttered, glaring at the ground floor plans.  "A larger ballroom?  Isn't one _more_ than enough?  And a dining room for two dozen? Ridiculous!"  
  
"The basement layout isn't bad," John said, scanning the plans for new servant quarters.  He picked up the plans for the third floor and grimaced.  "A bit overdone - only two enormous guest suites!  Was he expecting to host the King?  If we bring these down to reasonable proportions, though, we could have four or five guest rooms, with backstairs from the new servants' quarters.  Then we could keep the children's rooms - well, update them but otherwise..."  
  
He glanced over at where Sherlock had grabbed a pencil and was rapidly sketching out ideas on the plans, an intent look on his face.  John smiled.  It looked like they were going to be expanding Saughton House.  

* * *

John decided that he'd consult with the architects while he was in Edinburgh to consult with his Uncle Alex over the business of Janet and her children.  He wasn't able to undertake this the next day, however, as the Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy turned up just after breakfast bearing Archie.  The young Omega was nearly vibrating out of his skin with delight at being their guest for the next week, and he and Sherlock disappeared into the workroom almost immediately.  Apologising for his husband, John sent the maid for more coffee and handed the Dowager into a comfortable seat before the fire, as the morning was chilly.  
  
"No need to apologize," she said, accepting one of the seed cakes from the plate he held out for her.  "It does my heart good to see Archie so happy and eager about his studies, and he will enjoy this treat.  He is very kind to his cousins, and they have visited in the past when Janet was 'ill', but making the arrangement permanent is no-doubt stressful.  Clara is in transports, of course, with a houseful of children and little Meg and the twins will be the better for the change, but it is good for Archie to have something all his own."  
  
"Sherlock enjoys having him here as well, although I don't know how Clara will feel when she learns that his uncle has been teaching Archie how to blow up things," John said, grinning.  "Truth be told, though, there have been a dearth of cases and Sherlock has been growing bored enough to start thinking about redecorating."  
  
Margaret Dalrymple laughed at that and shook her head.  "Bored, indeed!  However, I have some information to share with you that will no doubt interest him as well."  She drew a letter out of her reticule, saying, "I have a dear friend attached to the Home Office and posted to Dublin who writes to me often."  
  
"A 'dear friend', Aunt Margaret?  Is he one of your many beaux?" John teased.  
  
She coloured like a girl but shrugged.  "It is agreeable to have beaux, and sometimes I think I might be lonely....  And I'm not yet fifty!  But I've grown too accustomed to having my own way to fall back into harness.  Besides, my James was truly the love of my life."  
  
"I thought it was an arranged match."  
  
"And what does that matter?" she asked, then smiled.  "I was sixteen when I met him at our betrothal party.  He'd been in Ireland for seven years - Father had found him a post as private secretary to Buckingham when he was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and James remained there through the next several appointments.  He had returned here for his father's funeral, and I thought that he was the most handsome man I'd ever seen.  We were married the following year, after his mourning ended, and then he was made the Earl of Dalmahoy before I returned to Ireland with him as his wife.  
  
"How strange it all seemed to me," she reminisced.  "We had apartments in Dublin Castle with the Viceroy and moved in Society there, such as it was.  That's where I met Colonel Moran's grandfather, Julian.  He was Viscount Blessington, a fine English peerage holding lands in Ireland for over a century.  He was nearing seventy at that time but still quite sharp.  It was he who had married the Moriarty heir - you will have heard that tale, I imagine?"  
  
"The girl who was the sole survivor when her father went mad?" John asked.  
  
"Yes, that was Mary Moriarty.  What she saw and heard on that night - well, it must have fair turned her mind, poor thing.  She went to live with her aunt, Thomas Moriarty's sister and Julian's mother, and she and Julian grew up together.  He fell under her spell and married her, although many warned him against it."  
  
"Why?  Surely they didn't blame her for her father's crimes?"  
  
"There's always been something a little...off...about the Moriarties," she replied.  "They have been in Ireland since Strongbow, they say, and married into most of the Irish clans - by force, in many cases.  Richard de Moriarty, the patriarch of the clan, is said to have abducted and ravished a holy woman, getting a son on her.  It is said that after giving birth she cursed him and all his descendants before jumping to her death, and that madness seems to run in the line."  
  
"What happened to Mary - Lord Blessington's wife?"  
  
"She died very young, in child-bed with their second child and Julian never remarried.  Augustus Moran was his heir and I knew him quite well when we were in Ireland, before he was sent to Persia.  He was a fine host, and an exceptional politician - until recently."    
  
Margaret held up the letter.  "The story given out was that Augustus retired from politics because of ill health but the truth of the matter is that he went mad and killed one of his servants in Persia - beat the man to death.  He was brought home and, according to my friend who is a close friend of his physician, developed a mad notion that he was Guy Fawkes reborn.  He made plans to blow up Parliament, had even gathered a few supporters before his son caught wind of the matter and shut him up in the family manor with a watcher.  And, conveniently for his son, Augustus died before he could further embarrass his son."  
  
"If Augustus's mother was the last Moriarty, why didn't he inherit that title?"  
  
"Because she wasn't the last," the Dowager replied.  "Thomas Moriarty had a younger brother, an Alpha, and the title passed to him although he chose not to take it up.  Avery Moriarty married the Omega son of a wealthy businessman by the name of Murphy and, to try to escape the scandal, took his husband's name.  Their son married Julian's sister, Octavia, and Octavia's son was Sarah Martin's father." 

Margaret sighed and shook her head.  "And yes, I believe that she was truly Sarah Martin, not Sarah Watson.  You will never convince me that your brother made her his wife, no matter what the law says.  James had his faults but he wouldn't have done Janet such a rotten trick as to marry her bigamously."  
  
"And so that is how the current Lord Moriarty gained his title," John mused, frowning as he tried to comprehend the intricacies of the Moriarty-Moran genealogy.  Given how often the two families appeared to have intermarried, he thought it a wonder that they weren't all mad.    
  
"Belike, although I would have said that Sarah is a Beta - although maybe they have different inheritance laws among Irish titles," the Dowager said, shrugging as if to dismiss the vagaries of foreign customs.  "In any event, Moriarty has done better than he ought - and you had best get your nursery in order, John!  I have no desire to see him step into your shoes."  
  
"Nor do I," John retorted, flushing slightly at the pointed remark.  "There is plenty of time for that.  We are both young and healthy, and Helen is only seven months old."  
  
"One never knows what might happen," the Dowager said ominously, rising from her chair.  She took leave of John then, and as he made his way to the workroom to see what Sherlock and Archie were doing, he couldn't help mulling over this new information about Moriarty and his husband.

* * *

September flowed into October, bringing with it the chill of autumn and workmen to look over the building site as the architects drew up plans for the extension to the house.  Sherlock developed an intense interest in the project, firing questions at the workmen and pestering the architect with demands and derisive comments about their ideas.  John was thankful when two new cases suddenly presented themselves - another few days and he thought that the architectural firm would quit.    
  
The cases were interesting enough to divert Sherlock's attention.  The first case involved the murder of a wealthy gold-mining magnate's wife, and the police had arrested the beautiful young governess as all clues pointed to her wishing to step into her employer's shoes.  The second case was also a murder, that of a gentleman living in Boscombe valley who had quarrelled with his son before turning up dead, reportedly at his son's hands.  Both turned out to have been killed in the name of love, but not by the one arrested for the crime.

In the first case, the wife had become jealous of the governess, for her husband had ceased to love her and instead was besotted by the younger woman.  The governess had refused to hear him but still the wife had hated her, hated her and her husband so terribly that she had taken her own life in such a way as to cast suspicion on the other woman. Sherlock had determined how the crime had been committed and had recovered the murder weapon, freeing the governess from all charges.  John had privately advised the governess to be cautious about accepting the love of a man who had proven so fickle once, and he later heard that she had resigned her post and has accepted a position with a family going out to India.  
  
The second case was not as easily sorted.  The murdered man had turned out to be a blackmailer, squeezing his benefactor for years because of his past.  Finally the dead man had demanded something that his victim wouldn't pay: the hand of his Omega daughter for his son.  In a moment of passion, of desperation, and to protect his daughter, he had struck down his tormentor.  Sherlock had seen all of this from the site of the murder and Taylor, the victim of the blackmailer, had confessed.  As he had been trying to protect his family and was dying, he was allowed to die in his bed instead of a prison cell.  The irony of the matter was that the son was as different from his father as it was possible to be and desperately in love with the girl, and that she was equally in love with him.  John hoped that, without their fathers to come between them, they would have a chance of happiness in the future.  
  
By the time these cases were settled, October was drawing to an end and Sherlock became immersed in the wintering of his hives.   John came to an agreement with the architects about the addition to the house and it was fixed that they would begin the work after the family had returned to London, with the plan of completing the exterior before they returned in August.  Once the addition was completed, John had engaged them to plot out improvements to the current house, in the form of improved toilets and a bathing chamber on the basement floor.  
  
"I wonder, John, if we might implement one such chamber of our own," Sherlock said when John laid this plan before him.  "Perhaps not as sophisticated a device as that in Baker Street, but a permanent place for a tub at the least."  
  
"That would be delightful but where would we put it?  Unless you propose that we relocate our bed-chambers to the new wing?"  
  
"I have been thinking on that," Sherlock replied.  "It is nonsense to maintain two separate bed-chambers here.  I know that it is fashionable but we care little for that, and we do not maintain such at Baker Street.  We rarely sleep apart as it is now.  As to specifics, while we have been sharing my bedroom, yours is the larger of the two and better laid out.  I propose that we turn my bedchamber into a dressing room, where there will be ample space for a bathing room."    
  
He paused and looked at John with unaccustomed uncertainty.  "Unless you dislike the scheme."  
  
"On the contrary," John said.  "It is very sensible."  He couldn't help the twitch of his lips as he said that.  
  
"Do not tease, John," Sherlock said, affronted.  "I can be sensible."  
  
John hastened to assure his husband that of course he could, although privately he thought that "sensible" was not a trait that he'd assign to Sherlock.  The plan agreed to, John set about rearranging the two rooms, and by the time winter set in, the household was comfortably settled.  
  
During all of this time, John kept an eye on the Lodge but there was never a sign of habitation.  He also watched for Moriarty to appear at any of the events of Edinburgh's small Season but it looked as if he had either returned to London or gone home to Ireland.  Sarah Martin nee Murphy, now presenting herself as the Dowager Countess of Saughton, appeared at several of the public balls and entertainments.  However, there was enough of a scandal attached to her relationships with both James Watson and Sean Martin to make the society matrons turn their backs on her so she appeared to retreat to the seclusion of her new house.  John was relieved, not certain how he would behave if he came face to face with her.  
  
He was also relieved that he didn't have to see Janet, although he felt a little guilty to admit it.  She'd been released from hospital into the keeping of Harry and Clara, and had been installed in Addistoun House under the care of medical attendants.  According to Harry, she was only vaguely aware of what was going on around her, accepting that she'd been ill and needed care, and seeming to relish the attention she was receiving.  She'd asked once about the children and, assured that they were in the care of their nanny, had displayed no further interest.  She had only, Harry said with thinly-veiled contempt, demanded the services of a seamstress to fashion new dressing gowns suited to her invalid status.  John, having seen that Janet's dowry was placed in trust and having provided for the children, washed his hands of his former sister-in-law with relief.

John had seen Hamish Watson, once, shortly after the hearing.  The young man had refused any offer of inheritance from his father, content with his current position, and wanting only to one day hold the Saughton Mains farm.  John had been pleased to assure him of that, and even to put it in writing.   He was also pleased to witness his Uncle Alex send by post Lord Moriarty's share of his inheritance, a draft for seventeen pounds, five shillings.  Although John thought that Alex had overestimated the sum a little.  He only wished that he could be present to see Moriarty's reaction to that, and to Mycroft's request that Lord Moriarty reimburse him for his father's debt of honour, paid to Colonel Moran. (John also hoped that Mycroft wasn't seriously expecting to be repaid.)  
  
And then Christmastide was on them, and John was wrapped up in organising the estate party for the tenants and staff, the first he'd been present for since inheriting the title.  He took special joy in performing the role of Father Christmas, handing out presents to the estate's children, and seeing the faces of the Martin children light up made him feel better than he had in months.  His tenants were happy and healthy, the harvest was improving each year, and he was another year closer to paying off the mortgages that Mycroft held. 

Still, despite his pleasure in seeing the estate coming about due to his careful handling, despite his interest in the improvements to the house, John found that he was increasingly eager to return to Baker Street and their life in London.  Or perhaps it was his association with Sherlock, for he found himself longing for the chase through the back streets of London, for the challenges of the criminal classes there.  Hogmanay at Dalmahoy was splendid and festive, and his heart stirred with pride at seeing Sherlock perform his role as "first foot" with aplomb, but it wasn't until he stood on the deck of their ship and looked down on the quay of the Port of London with all its bustle and confusion that he felt himself draw in a full, deep breath.

And as he stood on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street with Sherlock beside him and their daughter in his arms, as the door swung open and he heard the welcoming cry of Mrs. Hudson, he knew himself to be home at last.


	50. Part IV: Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return to London, but all is not as it should be. And a very unwelcome visitor forces his way into their parlour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am indebted to Arthur Conan Doyle for his beautiful writing, some of which is included in the last part of this chapter, and to Ariane DeVere for transcribing the Sherlock BBC episodes.

Mrs. Hudson was delighted to see them, making much over little Helen as she saw them settled in the family drawing room and rang for tea.    
  
"It's been so quiet without you here," she said to Sherlock as she prepared his tea to his taste.  "Restful for a bit, without all the noise and mess, but strange.  It will be good to have visitors again."  
  
"Not too many, I hope, unless they are clients," Sherlock replied, then popped a ginger biscuit into his mouth, whole.    
  
John rolled his eyes at his husband's manners, accepting his cup from Mrs. Hudson with thanks.  "It's too early in the year for Ton visitors; Parliament won't sit for another few weeks.  And speaking of visitors, I'll send a note with Billy to ask Mycroft and Greg to come 'round for your birthday dinner tomorrow night."  
  
Sherlock groaned.  "Oh, please, must you spoil our homecoming?"  
  
"Come, now!  You'll be glad to see Lestrade - he might have Work for you."  
  
Sherlock grumbled but John could see him perk up at that thought.  He began rummaging through the desk drawers for paper and John turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson.  
  
"How did the roof repairs go?" he asked.  "Was there much damage?"  
  
"Lord, what a mess!" she replied, pouring each of them another cup of tea.  "And I wouldn't have known if Alice hadn't found a spot of damp in the night nursery when she was washing the windows, and just think what a horror it would have been if damp had gotten into the walls!"  
  
"What happened?"  
  
She shrugged.  "They had the chimney sweeps in next door and they must have damaged the shingles while they were on the roof, the careless fools.  Nearly tore the gutter off as well, which is what did the damage.  But it's all to rights now."  
  
"Excellent."  John looked over at Sherlock who had paused in whatever he was writing and was staring at Mrs. Hudson with an abstracted frown on his face.  "Sherlock?"  
  
"Hmm?"  Sherlock came out of whatever puzzle he was contemplating and turned his attention to John.  "John, I believe we should expand our household staff to include a footman."  
  
"A footman," John said blankly.  "Whatever for?"  
  
"Wiggins can hardly be running to the door every time there's a knock, and the maids are far too busy to be forever hanging about by the door.  A footman would also be useful for waiting on table, particularly if we choose to entertain."  
  
"Very well.  Mrs. Hudson, would you - "  
  
"No need to trouble Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said briskly.  "I will draft an advertisement and interview candidates."    
  
John stared at him in disbelief.  "You?"  
  
Sherlock drew himself up at John's words.  "You are constantly reminding me that the household is _my_ responsibility."  
  
"I said that _once_ and then gave up."  
  
"Still."  Sherlock turned back to whatever he was writing.  
  
John turned back to Mrs. Hudson and they exchanged an amused smile.  John decided to give Sherlock a few weeks before putting the matter back into Mrs. Hudson's hands.  
  
True to his word, though, Sherlock produced a footman the next day, a young man who bore the moniker of Shinwell Johnson.  He was tall and muscular although John could predict that his was the sort of frame that would turn to fat with middle age.  His eyes were a vivid black and seemed both sharp and intelligent, and although John was doubtful about his skill as a footman, he was reluctant to interfere in a matter involving Sherlock's handling of the servants.  
  
Johnson proved his worth that same day, however, when he repulsed Kitty Riley's latest attempt to infiltrate the house (under the pretence of delivering a purchase from the fishmonger's shop).  Wiggins accepted Johnson without question, and Annie seemed to take a fancy to him for he was always invited to join the nursery party when she took Helen out for an airing.  So John let the matter rest.

* * *

   
The next evening the Watson-Holmes household sat quite a respectably sized party down to dinner, the first party they had hosted for more than just the immediate family.  John had decided to make a Twelfth Night revel of it, inviting not only Mycroft and Greg but also Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper.  They had both accepted with every evidence of delight.  As they gathered in the Drawing Room before dinner,  John was pleased to pass on news of Georgia to Molly as well as a letter, and she blushed as she received both.     
  
Mycroft was quiet, saying little more than birthday wishes to Sherlock, but John could see the lines about his eyes and mouth that spoke of sleepless nights, so he assumed that the current unease in the government was at the root of it.  His face lit up when Annie brought Helen down before dinner, to be reacquainted with her uncles.  Years seeming to fall away from Mycroft's face as he held Helen on his knee and dangled his watch for her amusement.   Molly exclaimed over how much Helen had grown since she'd seen her last, and Mike congratulated them over her continuing good health.  However, Mycroft didn't offer to let them hold his niece, not that they asked, and when they went in to dinner, he seemed much less burdened.

"Have you heard of London's latest mystery, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked as Johnson presented a dish of turbot for his selection.  "Society has talked of little else this past week."

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture.  "What interest have I in a suicide?"

"Oh, you mean young Ronald Adair," John said, passing a dish of pickled plums to Lestrade.  "Such a promising young man, too, or so the papers said."  
  
Lestrade shook his head.  "You'll never convince me that he was a suicide.  There was no gun in the room, for one thing."  
  
"The papers said that the butler admitted that he'd tidied it away, so as not to distress Adair's mother," Molly offered, refusing the turbot and selecting a jellied eel instead.

"Was there a reason given for his death?" John asked.    
  
"His mother said he'd been troubled for several days," Lestrade replied.  "Ever since the death of his aunt-by-marriage a few weeks ago.  He was very close to his uncle; his death a few years ago left young Adair quite well off, with Funds and several pretty properties in London."  
  
"Indeed," Mycroft agreed.  "Reginald Stewart was to have been your neighbour - had purchased this very part of the house where we now sit - but he died before he could take residence, and then Adair lost the deed in a peculiar manner.  In a card game, which was odd, for Adair was a cautious man and not an idle gambler.  The matter was unusual enough to come to my attention, the house being situated as it was."  
  
John remembered that Mycroft had told him that when he'd made the deed over to John the previous year and he frowned in thought.  "Is there any reason for the coroner to rule it something other than suicide?"  
  
Lestrade sighed.  "Unfortunately not.  The door was locked from the inside, the key on the desk beside his hand - the butler had to break down the door.  The window was open but the room was on the second floor with no way to climb up to it.  The butler admits that he took the pistol that was lying on the desk and threw it in the rubbish, although Adair wasn't holding it - the coroner assumed that it fell of out his hand onto the desk."  
  
"And he had no debts, no scandal that might cause him to put a period to his life?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"None.  In fact, there was a tidy pile of guineas on his desk and his friends said that he'd been having quite a run of luck at whist while playing at his club this week."  
  
"His partner?"  
  
"Lord Blessington," Mycroft said.  "The former Colonel Moran."  
  
John and Sherlock exchanged a look.  "Odd that several of Moran's gambling friends have met untimely ends," Sherlock said slowly.  "John's brother two years ago, Colonel Hayton last year, and now Ronald Adair."  
  
"Colonel Hayton?" John asked, surprised.  "I knew him on the Peninsula - he was attached to the Buffs, and I treated him when he was wounded at Elizondro.  He was sent back to Lisbon with the rest of the wounded.  A good soldier, and a good man."  
  
"How did you know about Hayton?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, surprised.    
  
"I told him," Molly offered.  "He was one of my autopsies and I thought there was something peculiar about his death.  He shot himself as well."  
  
"I saw the report," Stamford said.  "But he had been in St. Thomas' for weeks, as an incurable.  Consumption.  Not surprising that he chose another way.  And wasn't your brother's death a hunting accident?"  
  
"So they said," John replied.    
  
"Moran is unlucky with his whist partners," Lestrade said.  
  
"Or they're unlucky with him," Mycroft said darkly, and John watched as he and Sherlock exchanged a look.  
  
"His husband doesn't appear to be unlucky at all," Stamford said, helping himself to another sweetbread and a serving of glazed ham.  "Lord Moriarty is in all the Society columns.  If he isn't the guest of honour at some house party, he's opening the ball at another."  
  
John and Sherlock exchanged another look.  At least they knew now where Moriarty had been over the past few months, although John felt a bit silly now for thinking that Moriarty might have been lurking about the Lodge.    
  
"I have no wish to talk about Lord Moriarty," Mycroft said darkly, and John knew that he'd learned about the Consistory Court decision.  "Mr. Stamford, I can see from the state of your shirt-cuffs that you have news to impart to my brother-in-law."  
  
"Really, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a sniff.  "It is quite clear from the arrangement of his _cravat_ that he is soon to be married."  
  
John looked at Stamford in surprise.  "Mike! Is this true?  Congratulations, dear fellow!"  
  
"Ah, but Sherlock you have missed the chalk dust!  Mr. Stamford has received a promotion, to that of a teaching surgeon with St. Bart's, one that is well-warranted."  
  
Stamford blushed at this although he gave Sherlock and Mycroft mock-glares.  "You might give a fellow a chance to impart his own news, you know."  To John he said, "It's true, though.  They offered me the position in September, and on the basis of it I proposed to Miss Sinclair, who I've been walking out with for the past year.  We are to be married in the spring, and I'd be honoured if you and Sherlock would stand up with me."  
  
"Of course we will!" John replied and turned to the footman.  "Johnson, fetch a bottle of champagne from the pantry!"  He turned back to Stamford.  "We must drink a toast to your good fortune, Mike."  
  
When the champagne was poured, John rose to his feet to propose the first toast, predicting that Mike would one day be chief surgeon.  Sherlock in turn said that Stamford would be the most genial of husbands "with the result that you will be ruled by your prospective bride and put-upon by your servants."  Mike laughed at this and thanked them for their good wishes, and the earlier topics of discussion were all but forgotten.  
  
John did, however, make a note of the peculiar event of Ronald Adair's death in his journal.

* * *

 A few days later, John and Sherlock were enjoying a quiet afternoon in front of the fireplace in the private parlour.  Outside, the day was unseasonably mild for January and John contemplated coaxing Sherlock into taking a stroll with him, for it was certain that the weather would not last.  At present, though, Sherlock was rereading the results of his latest experiment with an eye towards publishing a monograph on the differences between two hundred and forty-something types of tobacco ash, so John turned his attention to writing up the details of their recent cases, some for publication and some for their private records. 

He had just finished detailing the case of the Boscombe Valley murder when the sound of the door knocker downstairs made him look up, wondering if it was a client at last.  There was an exchange of conversation which he couldn't make out, and then a moment later the newest of the housemaids, Betsy, tapped on the door.

  
"M'lord," she said timidly to John from the doorway.  "There's a Gentleman here to see you, and Lord Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock looked up with interest from the book he was reading.  "A client?"  
  
"Don't know, m'lord," Betsy replied.  "He gave his card."  She crossed the room to hand the visiting card to John.  "He came to the office door, though."  John frowned as he looked down at the card and she added, quickly, "I said I'd call Mister Wiggins, m'lord, but he said - he said that he didn't talk to lackeys."  Her lip trembled a little.  "He weren't very nice, m'lord."  
  
"Then we have nothing to say to Mr. Magnussen, Betsy," John said, tossed the card into the rubbish bin.  "Where is Johnson?  Why didn't he answer the door?"  
  
"He's walking with Miss Harrison and Lady Helen, m'lord.  Cook was wishful that they stop at the wine merchant to obtain a few bottles of sherry."  
  
John resolved to speak with Sherlock later about Johnson's predilection for Annie's company; although he had no objection to them courting as long as they remained circumspect, this latest event proved that either Johnson or Wiggins needed to answer the door to 221B, not the maids.  
  
"Very well.  Please step up to Mr. Wiggins' room and have him show the man the door."  
  
Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, snatching the card out of the bin.  "Charles Augustus Magnussen," he read, and his hand clenched on the card as he looked up to meet John's eyes.  "Fetch Wiggins, Betsy, but tell him to wait in the hallway.  Lord Saughton and I will see to Mr. Magnussen ourselves."  
  
Once Betsy had left the room, John said quietly, "The name is known to you, then."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "Charles Augustus Magnussen.  Born Charles Milverton but he changed his name when he came to England to inherit his uncle's business.  The Magnussens own a majority share of one of the newspapers, but _this_ Magnussen's chief form of employment is obtaining the secrets of others.  He is the king of all blackmailers, and the worst man in London.   I have been in the presence of many murderers and none of them repulse me as much as this fellow.  With a smiling face and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze his victim until he has drained them dry.  The lives that he's ruined, John, would give the most vicious murderer pause."  
  
John frowned.   "What does he want with us?"  
  
"That remains to be seen, but I don't think that we can refuse to see him.  Not until we know his purpose in coming here."  
  
John gave him a suspicious look.  "Did you expect him?  Do you have a client who is being blackmailed?"  
  
"Not at present.  Come, John!"  He stopped in the doorway, turning back to John, his expression serious.  "Be careful, John.  He is a man entirely without pity and his purpose here cannot be good.  Do not lose your temper with him."  
  
"I'll try," John said, his voice grim for he hated blackmailers and other such hectoring cowards with a passion.  "But I make no promises."  
  
Sherlock made a helpless little gesture but as John refused to back down, he appeared to accept this and led the way down the stairs to their Work parlour.  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, however, John moved quickly so that he entered the parlour ahead of his husband.  
  
As they entered the room, John took a moment to study the man standing in front of the fireplace.  He was a large, slender man of about forty, with a large head and keen grey eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses.  One might have thought that there was an air of benevolence in his appearance because of the hint of a smile on his lips, but John could read insincerity in that smile and hardness in his glittering eyes.    
  
"Ah, Lord Saughton!  I am so pleased to find you at home."  
  
Magnussen stepped forward, his hand outstretched in greeting.  John ignored his hand, staring at him impassively, trying to place his unusual accent.  Magnussen raised an eyebrow  as he dropped his hand, then he turned toward Sherlock.  
  
"And your delightful Omega husband," he continued, his eyes raking over Sherlock in a blatant way that made John clench his fists.  " _Very_ delightful."  
  
John deliberately stepped between them and Magnussen's smile broadened.  "You have business with me?" John asked shortly.  
  
Magnussen nodded.  "Direct and to the point," he said, "although not very elegant.  The essence of a Scottish gentleman, if one can stretch so far as to call you and your Highland kindred such."  
  
John's fists tightened further.  "State your business or I will have my servants toss you out on the pavement."  
  
Magnussen smiled, reminding John of nothing so much as a snake as it eyes its prey.  "Oh, you have nothing to fear from me personally, Lord Saughton.  You have been _remarkably_ circumspect, for a Gentleman.  No embarrassing billets to a light o' love, no compromising promises - oh, there have been _affaires_!  Although perhaps it is indelicate of me to mention them in front of your husband?"  
  
Calmly, Sherlock said, "I am well aware of Lord Saughton's past."  
  
"An understanding spouse is above pearls, eh?" Magnussen said to John with an insincere smile.  "So, no wayward and indiscreet letters by you - or your sister, the Earl of Dalmahoy, despite her penchant for the bottle.  And your brother, the late Earl, was a very _poor_ correspondent."  He chuckled.  "Oh, he was a rare one!  Up to _many_ things but didn't write them down, in letters or diaries."  
  
"My patience is thin, Mr. Magnussen."  
  
"Very well, Lord Saughton.  I will be brief."  Magnussen drew out his handkerchief and wiped his hands very carefully, studying them as he spoke.  "I have in my possession a letter that would be of great interest to you, my lord, were it to be placed in your hands."  
  
"What kind of letter?"  
  
Magnussen tilted his head, his sharp eyes studying John.  "Interesting.  Most men would have turned to look at their spouse, would have wondered if they'd been betrayed.  Do you trust him so much?"  
  
"Completely, and without question," John said firmly.  "What. Kind of. Letter?"  
  
"You are correct - it was not written by him, nor _to_ him.  Lord Sherlock is discreet - or perhaps just dull - in regards to matters of the heart.  However, this _singular_ letter has the power to change your lives."  
  
"And what do you want for this letter?  Money, I suppose."  
  
Magnussen smiled thinly.  "Nothing so venal."  His voice sharpened.  "There is a matter coming up before Parliament that has caught my...interest."  
  
"No," John snapped.    
  
Magnussen ignored him.  "And your brother-in-law, Mycroft Holmes.  An important man, rapidly becoming a _very_ important man.  He has _one_ pressure point: his brother, Sherlock.  He would do _much_ to ensure his brother's happiness - "  
  
Sherlock snorted.  "You know so little about my brother if you think that!"  
  
" - such as securing for him an advantageous marriage.   Lord Sherlock's pressure point is his husband, John Watson, current Earl of Saughton.  John Watson's pressure points are his family - husband, daughter, sister, brothers - and his duty to his estate.  Own John Watson and you _own_ Mycroft Holmes."  
  
Sherlock looked sharply at John, fear and worry showing briefly, and John's temper snapped.  He couldn't bear the presence of this odious man any longer.  He turned his back on Magnussen and walked to the door, opening it.    
  
"You have exhausted my interest in you, Mr. Magnussen." John gestured to Wiggins, leaning against the wall opposite.  "Show Magnussen the door and do not admit him to this house in the future."  
  
"You are making a mistake, Lord Saughton," Magnussen said, putting his hat back on his head sharply.  He wiped his hands with his handkerchief a last time before thrusting it back into his pocket.  "One that I fear you will _regret_.  I will _own you_ , and your _husband_ , and your _child_ , and _this house_ \- "  
  
John lifted his chin.  "You are a bully-boy, Mr. Magnussen, and if there's one thing I know it's that if you give into a bully once, you're giving into them for the rest of your life.  And _that_ is what I would regret.  If you show your face on my doorstep _ever again_ , I will have you horsewhipped down the street.  I trust that I have made myself clear?"  
  
Without waiting for a reply, he closed the parlour door in Magnussen's face and turned away from it, aware that his hands were shaking and that the room was fuzzy around him.  A glass was pressed into his hand and guided to his lips and he took a swallow, feeling the brandy burn its way down his throat.  Sensation came back, and with it his reason.  
  
John groaned.  "That was possibly the _stupidest_ thing I've ever done."  
  
"And yet you invaded Portugal," Sherlock said, watching him intently, standing so close that John could almost feel him breathing.     
  
"Not by myself," John said, suddenly remembering a mad chase over the roof tops of Wapping.  And then he was giggling uncontrollably, and Sherlock was laughing along with him. John staggered over to the sofa and collapsed onto it, laughing until he was weak.    
  
Sherlock poured him another glass of brandy and John drank it gratefully.  "Now what?" he asked, once he'd regained his senses.  He knew that it was useless for him to apologize for losing his temper so spectacularly, but he couldn't help worrying.  
  
"Now we wait," Sherlock said, taking the chair across from him.  "Whatever he has, it doesn't have the power to ruin you, or us, or your family.  If it had, he would have said, used that to pressure you."  
  
"Something with the power to change our lives," John mused.  "But not an incriminating letter from either of us."  
  
Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes sharp and curious as he studied John.  "You were certain that I hadn't written one."

"You were equally certain of me," John said simply, "and had less reason to trust."  
  
"You are not your brother, John."  
  
John drew in a sharp breath.  "Do you think it's a letter from James, one that puts this whole mess of his marriage to rights?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "Magnussen said that your brother didn't put anything down in letters or diaries."  
  
John frowned.  "But that's not true.  Sarah Martin had letters, several of them - that's what the Court said.  James referred to her as his wife in them."  
  
Sherlock also frowned.  "And you found that odd at the time?"  
  
"Well, yeah.  Harry was the correspondent in the family, not James.  I received _one_ letter from him in my entire life, when I was at school - and I remember because he put a guinea under the seal.  When I heard of her letters I thought that love had indeed changed him."  Sherlock didn't reply, looking deep in thought, and John leaned forward.  "Sherlock?"  
  
"Quiet, John!" Sherlock ordered, flinging up a hand to silence him.  "There is something very odd..." 

Sherlock sprang to his feet and strode to the parlour door, flinging it open.  "I will be upstairs in our sitting room, John - kindly do not disturb me for ridiculous nonsense like dinner."  He started up the stairs, then stopped and turned back to John.  "Unless it's Helen's dinner.  She is not yet weaned - "  
  
"Yes, fine," John replied.  "Is there anything that I can do to help?"  
  
"How could you possibly help?"  
  
"No idea," John said simply.  "Yeah.  Probably not."  He turned back towards the parlour.  
  
Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth, then closed it.  "Actually...  John.  Yes.  I need - I need yarn, in several colours.  And tacks.  And another pair of hands would be useful as well."  
  
John had swung back around when Sherlock said his name and now he smiled, nodding his head.  "Yarn, tacks.  I'll get them and bring them upstairs."  
  
"Hurry!" Sherlock ordered, turning and running up the stairs.    
  
John watched him for a moment, aware that he was grinning like an idiot but unable to stop.  Then he went in search of Mrs. Hudson.


	51. Part IV: Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New clues, a new case, and cunning accusations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case and some of the words used to present it are ACD's from "The Norwood Builder". It has been combined with the Granada version of the case, although the incriminating thumbprint has been omitted as fingerprints were not yet used in investigations.

John was sitting at his desk, writing out the names of his dead nieces and nephews on note cards when Mycroft was announced.  He looked up, surprised, for it had been two weeks since they'd seen or heard from Sherlock's brother, and John had assumed that he'd gone out of town to visit Lestrade's family, as they had the previous year.  
  
He stood to shake hands and asked Johnson to have tea brought up, then looked at Mycroft.  "Unless you'd prefer something stronger?" he asked.  Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John nodded, then turned to Johnson.  "That'll be all.  Oh - and let Lord Sherlock know that his brother is here."    
  
Johnson bowed and withdrew as John said to Mycroft, "Sherlock's up with Helen but he'll be down shortly."  
  
"I see that you've acquired a new footman," Mycroft observed.  
  
"Mmm, yes.  Sherlock's idea."  John put down his pen and blotted the last card, rising with them in his hand.  "Help yourself to a drink while I finish this up before Sherlock returns.  Not that I'll have done it right, but he'll enjoy correcting me."    
  
Saying that, he walked over to the wall where a china cabinet had stood the last time that Mycroft had been in this room.  The wallpaper was now covered by cards and sketches, connected to each other by bits of coloured yarn.  John pinned the cards he held to the wall beneath a blank card.  
  
"What's all this then?" Mycroft asked, staring at the spectacle.  
  
John tacked up the last card.  "It's a crime wall - Sherlock's invention.  Brilliant, isn't it?"  
  
He stepped back and surveyed the wall with satisfaction.  At one side was the name "Jefferson Hope" with the names of his four victims below him connected by red yarn to indicate that he was directly responsible for their deaths.  A bit of blue yarn connected Hope back a large question-mark, his "patron", at the top of the wall.  He glanced over at Mycroft who was looking over the names and facts that Sherlock had gathered and John had carefully written out.  There were Hope's victims and Hope himself, there was John's family - Jane and George and the two little ones, and James himself.  Colonel Hayton and Mrs. Stewart were there, with yarn connecting them to Colonel Moran, but Mycroft plucked the card with the name of Ronald Adair from the wall.  
  
"Whatever crimes you are trying to solve, this isn't one of them," Mycroft said.  "I have my own suspicions regarding Adair's death."  
  
"And those would be?" Sherlock asked, exchanging his dressing gown for a coat and throwing the former over the back of a chair.    
  
"Adair was working for the Home Office.  He had recently returned from Ireland where he was secretly looking into the recent acts of arson in and around Dublin."  
  
"And it is your belief that one of these Irish rebels is responsible for his murder?"    
  
Mycroft nodded.  "It is not beyond them.  There have been other such clandestine attacks by skilled marksmen among them, and assassination is a favourite ploy of theirs.  Adair must have discovered something of importance; we are going through his notes to determine what that is."    
  
Sherlock scowled and opened his mouth to no doubt say something scathing, but John swiftly intervened. "Mycroft, I doubt that you came here to discuss your brother's deductions."  
  
"No, I didn't," Mycroft said.  He paused to pour out three glasses of Madeira, handing them out.  
  
"Now you've worried me," John said, attempting lightness.  "Will we need these for whatever news you have to impart?"  
  
"I understand that Charles Magnussen recently paid you a visit."  
  
John raised an eyebrow.  "Are you worried about scandal?  Mr. Magnussen kindly informed us that he was _not_ in possession of any incriminating documents of ours."  
  
"Which, in itself, is quite peculiar," Sherlock added.  "But you needn't trouble yourself, Brother; John sent him away with a flea in his ear."  
  
Mycroft's face darkened.  "Was that really wise?  Magnussen is _not_ the sort of man - "  
  
John raised his chin, not intending to hear any more.  "He wanted me to use my influence - or rather, your _brother's_ influence - on _you_.  To put you in his pocket.  Under the circumstances, I thought it best to make it very clear that we couldn't be bought.  No matter what temptation he offered."  
  
Mycroft paused, his lecture spiked.  And, no matter how different he and his brother were, in same ways they were alike.  Their curiosity was one of these.  "And what _did_ he offer?"  
  
"We don't know," Sherlock said shortly.  "Only that it would be of interest to John.  Of _great_ interest."  
  
Mycroft frowned.  "And you have no idea what that could be?"  
  
"None.  Of course, it could have been a bluff."  
  
"Magnussen doesn't _bluff_ ," Mycroft said absently.  "You had best leave this in my hands."  
  
John had the feeling that his brother-in-law was already trying to work out how to get his hands on that letter and was more than willing to let him have it.  Sherlock, however, was scowling at his brother's high-handed words.  
  
"I mean it, Sherlock," Mycroft said warningly.  "Charles Magnussen is a very dangerous man.  You cross him - and _me_ \- at your peril."  
  
"Right," John said, intervening before the two could start lashing out at each other.  "Mycroft, you should go up to see your niece - Helen has learned a new word since your last visit.  You'll be in town for her first birthday next month, yeah?"  
  
Diverted, Mycroft nodded and then pulled out his pocket watch.  "I do have a few minutes to stop by the nursery."  His eyes gleamed as he looked over at Sherlock.  "Did my brother tell you that he didn't speak until he was three years old?  And then it was a full sentence."    
  
As Mycroft left the room, John turned to give Sherlock an amused look.  "Three?"  
  
Sherlock sniffed.  "Mycroft exaggerates.  I spoke, just not in public.  And I was _nearly_ three."  
  
"Waiting till you could say the words perfectly?" John guessed, and at the flush of his husband's cheeks he knew he'd got it right.  
  
 To allow Sherlock time to recover his composure, John turned back to the "crime wall".  "I've finished the cards you wanted," he said, pointing to where he'd pinned the names and death dates of James and Janet's children under a blank card.    
  
"Excellent."  Sherlock made a few adjustments, then added a red string from the blank card above them to each of the children's cards.  
  
"Who do you think killed them, and how?" John asked.  
  
"We must look at who had motive to kill them, and who had the means.  Setting aside the possibility that Janet killed her own children in order to receive attention," he said, moving her card underneath the header of UNLIKELY where Harry and Clara's cards already were pinned, "the deaths of your brother's three Alpha children paved the way for another person to inherit.  _You_ would be the most likely suspect, disregarding the matter of your moral character, for anyone can commit murder if sufficiently motivated.  However, you were not in England and had no agent at Saughton to execute your instructions, therefore you are eliminated."  
  
Sherlock plucked John's card off the wall and dropped it onto the floor.  
  
"Good to know," John murmured.  
  
"Moriarty is the next likely candidate, but he had been sent away from the estate years earlier and it would have been noticed if he'd returned.  Moreover, he didn't have access to the house nor the children.  _However_ , his mother resided on the doorstep of the main house, _and_ in addition she had been their wet nurse and was known to help care for them. Since poison was the likely cause of death, she is even _more_ suspect, for poison tends to be a woman's tool.  However, it would be difficult to prove that she was at fault, though it is possible that the Martin children might know something.  It's also possible that Janet's children noticed something, since they also resided in the nursery."  
  
John frowned at the idea of interrogating the children.  All of them had been through so much already.  
  
"As to the death of your brother, the perpetrator had access to Saughton's gun room and knew enough of your brother's habits to predict where he would hunt that day.  He was patient enough to wait for his target and an excellent shot.  One person comes to mind who fits all of these and who was also known to be in the area a few days previous."  
  
Sherlock tacked a red string from James Watson to Colonel Moran, then placed another between Moran and Ronald Adair.  
  
"Then you don't believe there is an Irish connection to Adair's death?" John asked.  
  
"Not the sort of connection Mycroft imagines," Sherlock replied.  "I do find it curious that Adair was murdered shortly after returning from Dublin, the same area where the Murphy family resided.  And, as you recall," he said, pointing to cards bearing the names Sean Murphy Sr. and Liam Murphy, "Sarah Murphy's father and brother both died shortly after your brother's death, and paved the way for Seamus Murphy to claim the Moriarty title."  
  
"And Jennifer Wilson?  She was a Beta and not in contention for the title - was her death a coincidence?" John asked.  
  
"I don't know," Sherlock said, irritation in his voice as he stared at the names of the cabbie's victims, separated from the Watson victims.  "It could be coincidence that Jennifer Wilson died within weeks of the rest of her family, but the universe is rarely so random.  However, I fail to see the connection."  
  
Hearing the frustration in Sherlock's voice, John decided that a distraction from this case would be good.  Otherwise he was well aware that Sherlock would sulk for days.  He drew the curtain they had rigged to hide the crime wall and dragged Sherlock upstairs to join Mycroft and Helen in the nursery, and he prayed that a new case would arrive.  However, the criminal classes appeared to be enjoying a holiday, as Sherlock lamented daily.

Providence intervened in the unlikely form of Mycroft's lawyer, John McFarlane, two days later.    
  
They were still at breakfast and John had just unfolded his newspaper in a leisurely fashion, perusing the headlines.  In his mind, however, he was turning over thoughts regarding their upcoming anniversary.  In a week they would mark the end of their second year of marriage and the start of the third, and John was occupied with plans in an attempt to surprise his husband.  Not that he expected to be successful, but he hoped to at least come close.  A violent rapping at the door to 221B interrupted his thoughts and made both of them look up, Sherlock with an eager expression on his face.    
  
"Client!" he announced, jumping up from his chair and striding across the hall and through Mrs. Hudson's sitting room.  John hurried after him, arriving in the hall just as Johnson opened the door.  A dishevelled young man tumbled through the opening, nearly collapsing on the floor before catching himself on the door jam to the Working parlour.    
  
"I do beg your pardon, Lord Sherlock," he stammered, turning a wild-eyed and frantic gaze on Sherlock.  "I am nearly mad and I beg for your help!"  
  
John stepped forward to take the young man's arm, guiding him into the parlour.  "My dear sir!  Of course he will help, but first you must sit and attempt to calm yourself."  He looked back towards Johnson who had silently closed the front door behind their new client.  "Johnson, see if Wiggins is yet awake and have one of the maids bring up a tray of coffee and muffins, for I will warrant that this young man has need of sustenance."  
  
"Indeed, you are quite correct," Sherlock said, following them into the room, his eyes flicking over their new client in rapid assessment.  "Mr. McFarlane has not paused to eat or drink this morning, so great was his haste to reach us."  
  
John looked at Sherlock in surprise.  "You know this man?"  
  
"Of course; I have seen him often at Russell Street, and you met him there once yourself.  This is John McFarlane, solicitor, and the firm of which he is the junior partner has charge of my brother's legal affairs.  He was present when you and Mycroft discussed our marriage contract."  
  
John looked at the other man but he couldn't have been said to recognize the pale, shaking man sitting in the client chair.  His hair and face were fair, presently giving him the aspect of a wraith, and his hair and clothing were dishevelled as if he'd torn at both in despair.  
  
"Yes, I am John McFarlane," the man said, wheezing in a way that told John that the young man was a mild sufferer of asthma.  Despite the earliness of the hour, he poured a finger of scotch and placed the glass in the man's hand. "I am the most unfortunate man in London, and I beg you not to abandon me, Lord Holmes!" McFarlane said after he'd swallowed the scotch.  "If they come to arrest me before I've finished my story, make them give me the time to tell you the whole of my story.  I could go to jail content if I know that you are on the outside working for my safety."  
  
"Arrest you!" Sherlock exclaimed.  "On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"  
  
"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."  
  
Sherlock's expression shifted to a mix of sympathy and satisfaction.  "Dear me.  It was but a few minutes ago that I was saying to my husband that there was a lack of interesting cases in the papers.  Do proceed, Mr. McFarlane."  
  
At that point, however, there came another pounding on the door.  Sherlock held up his hand and John listened intently as Wiggins - who apparently was awake - spoke briefly with a man outside before approaching the parlour and sliding open the door.    
  
"My lords," he said to John and Sherlock.  "Mr. Bradstreet, of the Bow Street Runners, is at the door, and he is desirous of speaking to your client."  
  
"Admit him, Wiggins," Sherlock replied, "and then remain to guard the door.  I doubt that they will attempt to remove Mr. McFarlane by force but it is best to be prepared."  
  
Wiggins bowed and stepped away from the doorway, returning a few minutes later with Bradstreet and two other Runners at his heels.  Bradstreet took one look at the man sitting in their parlour and stepped forward.  
  
"Mr. John McFarlane," he said, "I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre of Lower Norwood."    
  
He gestured to his men who stepped forward, manacles in hand, and McFarlane went even paler, looking at Sherlock in appeal.  
  
"One moment, Bradstreet," Sherlock said.  "This gentleman was about to give us an account of this affair; surely another thirty minutes won't make a difference to you, and we might be able to clear up the affair."  
  
"I think there will be very little difficulty in clearing it up," Bradstreet said grimly.  
  
"Nevertheless, I should be interested in hearing his story," Sherlock said.  
  
"Well, my lord, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, after all you've done for Bow Street these past years," Bradstreet said.  "At the same time, I must remain with my prisoner and caution him that anything he may say will appear in evidence against him."  
  
"I wish nothing better," McFarlane said.  "I only desire the truth to be heard."  
  
Bradstreet turned and nodded to his assistants who stepped back into the hallway.  Betsy entered with the coffee tray and set it on the side table before leaving, and then Wiggins closed the doors and turned to stand with his back against it.  John poured out a cup of coffee for McFarlane, setting it and a muffin on the table at his elbow, before offering a cup to Bradstreet who refused.  Knowing that Sherlock would consume nothing until the case was solved, John poured a cup for himself and sat down at the writing table, dipped his pen in the ink, and prepared to take down notes.  
  
McFarlane took a small sip of the coffee and then set it back down.  "First, I must make it plain that I had never met Mr. Oldacre before Monday.  He knew my parents years ago, but the acquaintance had lapsed before I was born, and so I was surprised when he sent in his card to me at my office on Monday morning.  The clerk admitted him and Mr. Oldacre set several sheets of paper down on the desk, covered with scribbled writing.  
  
" 'Here is my will, Mr. McFarlane,' he said. 'I want you to cast it into proper legal shape.'  
  
"I took up the pages and, to my astonishment, saw that he had left to me the bulk of his estate, with the exception of a few small gifts to his servants.  I looked at him in disbelief; he explained that he was a bachelor with no family or close relations, and that he recalled the days of his youth, when he had known my parents, as the happiest of his life.  He thought that I would be the most deserving of recipients and, reluctantly, I agreed to accept the legacy.  With his notes and at his direction, I made a first draft of his will which was then signed and witnessed by my clerk.    
  
"Mr. Oldacre then told me that there were a number of documents back at his house that it would be necessary for me to see, so that I would understand the extent of the bequest and could cast the proper legal documents.  It was agreed that I would come to his house the next afternoon - yesterday - to finish the documents and obtain the final signatures."  
  
"And you went to his estate in Lower Norwood as agreed?" Sherlock asked.  
  
McFarlane nodded.  "Yes, and arrived at half past six as I had some difficulty in finding the house.  The door was opened by his housekeeper who showed me to Oldacre's study.  A frugal supper had been set out and a quantity of documents lay in the open safe.  We made a meal and then went over the documents together, finishing about half past ten.  The hour being late, Mr. Oldacre showed me out through the French window leading from his study into the garden rather than disturb his housekeeper.  I took a room at the local inn for the night, waking early to catch the Mail back to London.  When I dismounted the coach at Charing Cross I saw the headlines of the paper."  
  
Sherlock looked at Bradstreet inquiringly and he unfolded the newspaper he carried, handing it to Sherlock.  Sherlock cast a quick glance over the front page before handing it to John.  He looked down at it, reading the headline that said "Arson and Murder at Lower Norwood: John McFarlane sought!"  
  
"I realized at once that I would be blamed for this matter, although I swear that Oldacre was alive when I left him!" McFarlane said.  "And so I came to you, Lord Sherlock, and I beg that you will take my case."  
  
"Certainly," Sherlock said briskly.  "You have no knowledge of who might have wished for the death of Mr. Oldacre?  Any other beneficiaries?"  
  
McFarlane hesitated.  "I must keep my client's confidences, but the only other recipients were, as I have said, his servants."  
  
"Very well, Mr. McFarlane," Bradstreet said.  "You've said your piece.  My men are waiting in the hall to take you into custody and there is a four-wheeler outside."  
  
McFarlane nodded and rose, leaving the room with a last beseeching look at Sherlock, which he ignored.  John assured him that they would be in contact and walked them to the door.  
  
When he returned, Sherlock had picked up the pages of the rough draft of the will, studying them with a keen interest.  "What do you make of these?" he asked John, handing them to him.  
  
John frowned as he attempted to decipher the writing which was very bad and nearly illegible in parts.  "This is even worse than _your_ handwriting," he said at last.  "There are parts that I can't make out at all.  What does it tell _you_?"  
  
"That it was written in a carriage on the way between Lower Norwood and McFarlane's office," Sherlock replied.  "It is curious, is it not, that a man would draw up such an important document as his Will in such a haphazard fashion?  If he had been on his death bed, perhaps, but a man in good health would surely wish to take time over his final estate, not scribble it down in a coach.  It tells me that the man never intended this will to be in effect, that it was a ruse in order to get the young man to come out to his house."  
  
"But to what purpose?" John asked.  "If Mr. McFarlane had been murdered, then I could see the sense in drawing him there, but otherwise why bother?"  
  
"Because it was a trap, my dear John," Sherlock said, springing up from the sofa.  "And one that we must see for ourselves.  Come, John!  We must dress and be away!  Mr. McFarlane is counting on us."  
  
John remained behind for a moment to send Wiggins off to hire a carriage for their journey, then followed his husband upstairs so that he might wash, shave, and dress.  Sherlock was not in the room but returned shortly after John had finished shaving, coming down the stairs from the nursery with a frown upon his face.  John had no difficulty in interpreting that look, for Sherlock had borne it for the past two days.  
  
"Helen refused to nurse again?" he asked.  
  
Sherlock nodded and shed his dressing gown on the bed before disappearing into their dressing room.  "It appears that she has decided to wean herself.  While it will no doubt make our absences from the house easier to manage, I must confess that I shall miss it."  
  
"We will need to keep an eye on the calendar," John said with a slight frown.  "When your time is near, I will remove myself to one of the guest rooms until it has passed.  Or I can spend a few nights at my club, if you prefer."  
  
Sherlock came back to stand in the doorway between rooms, clad in smalls and shirt, and he frowned at John.  "Whatever for?  Oh, you are concerned about me undertaking another pregnancy.  Don't be ridiculous, John.  While I have no intention of becoming a brood mare for a dozen or more children, it might be prudent to have a second child quickly, to secure the title.  Preferably an Alpha."  
  
Sherlock returned to getting dressed while John wiped off his face with a towel and donned his shirt.  "And you have no concerns about undergoing that again?" he asked.  
  
"While giving birth was not a pleasant experience, I am told that it is easier the second time."  He returned to the bedchamber wearing his coat but with his cravat untied and his boots in hand.  "Do hurry, John!  Already I fear that the constables on the scene will have destroyed vital evidence."  
  
Despite Sherlock's worry, a short time later they arrived at Lower Norwood.  Leaving the hired carriage in the hands of the livery stable's boy, they walked through the open gates and made their way to the house of the late Jonas Oldacre.  Sherlock paused near both the gatepost and the steps to the house, studying something intently, before they mounted them and rang.  The housekeeper who answered the door looked severe and would have turned them away but a young constable came up behind her and waved them inside.  
  
"Bradstreet sent a message that we were to expect you," the young man, who introduced himself as Tobias Gregson, said.  "He said that I was to show you over the study where the murder took place and then take you out to where the body was found."  
  
"Then Oldacre wasn't found dead in his study?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"No, m'lord.  There was a fire out back, in the timber yard.  After the fire brigade put it out, they discovered the charred remains of a body.  That's when we were called in.  The housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, identified the trouser buttons on the clothing as belonging to her master - the name of the tailor is clearly marked on them."  
  
John frowned.  "Why would the murderer burn the body?"  
  
"A very good question, John," Sherlock replied, making his way into the study behind the constable.   "To cover up the crime, one assumes, but that casts further doubt on Mr. McFarlane's guilt in the matter.  If Oldacre was murdered so that McFarlane could get his hands on the inheritance, he would need to produce the body of the deceased or else wait seven years until Oldacre was declared legally dead.  However, the suddenness of the murder, coming only one day after learning of the inheritance, speaks of a desperation to inherit, and a wait of seven years would be an eternity.  No, far better to have staged what would appear to be a natural death and thus inherit quickly."  
  
"You haven't seen the state of the study, m'lord," Gregson replied.  "Proper mess it is, with papers scattered about, a broken chair and torn books, not to mention the blood.  McFarlane pro'lly attacked Oldacre thinking that the old man would go down easy only he fought back.  Once the deed was done and McFarlane saw the mess, he panicked and decided to burn the body.  Better to wait on the inheritance than to hang."  
  
By this time they had arrived in the study and John could see that it was a complete shambles.  Chairs were knocked over and one broken, papers lying scattered, and the big safe was open.  As far as John could tell, however, the contents looked undisturbed which argued against a robber in the night.  There were slight traces of blood on the floor and upon a walking stick lying in the middle of the carpet, but not enough to make John believe that a man had been struck his death blow here.  Stunned, perhaps, and then dragged outside to be burned alive?  
  
Mrs. Lexington stood by the doorway, watching all of them as if they might make off with the silver if her back was turned.  Sherlock took a quick look at the room and then turned to question her.  She told him that she'd admitted McFarlane to the house but had gone to bed at ten and hadn't seen him again.  She had been roused near midnight by the alarm of fire and had sought out her master, only to find he was no where to be found.  When the fire brigade had discovered the body, she had readily identified the coat and trousers as the ones Mr. Oldacre had worn that very night, after which she'd had to lie down upon her bed to recover from the shock.  
  
"One last question," Sherlock said, "and then we'll let you return to your duties.  Was Mr. Oldacre a generous sort of man?  Did he contribute to the local parish relief fund, for example, or provide food or coins for beggars?"  
  
Mrs. Lexington sniffed at the very idea.  "Mr. Oldacre didn't hold with encouraging lie-abouts to be idle, not with hand-outs and such.  'Charity begins at home', he always said.  'Open your purse one time when the vicar comes to call and he'll be expecting you to empty your pockets every month'."  
  
During this interview, John had sat down at the desk to look through the papers there, which included Oldacre's bank-book.  He was surprised to see that, far from being a wealthy man, the man's accounts had been nearly empty.  There were several large checks that had been made over the past few months to a Mr. Cornelius, but looking through his bills and records, John could find no other reference to that man.  Had they been debts of honour?  Was it possible that Oldacre was a gambler, and a bad one at that?  There were no redeemed vowels among the papers but there were a number of requests for payment, and the most recent ones were quite insistent.  Another look at the records listed a few deeds to properties that were worth a pretty penny, and John wondered why the man hadn't sold them to pay off his debts.  However, when he looked through the safe and the desk, he could find no sign of the deeds.  
  
He explained his findings to Sherlock once the housekeeper had been dismissed and was pleased to see Sherlock's eyes light up.  "It's important, then?" he asked.  
  
"Extremely.  Once again, John, you have cast a light on this mystery and I begin to see my way clear," Sherlock said.  He glanced outside.  "Let us take a look at the site of the fire and then perhaps a stroll around the garden, for it is really a fine day for January."  
  
The shed housing the timber yard was nearly destroyed, which told John that the fire had burned very hot and fierce and Sherlock nodded, suggesting coal oil had been used to start it. Since the body had been removed there was little of interest remaining, so Sherlock led the way around the yard, back to the gatepost where he pointed out what had interested him earlier.  
  
"Do you see those markings, John?  Those are a code of sorts among those who live on the streets, one that Wiggins taught me.  These symbols are very recent, and they indicate that this house can be relied upon for charity.  However, Mrs. Lexington said quite clearly that Mr. Oldacre didn't encourage any form of alms-giving."  
  
John frowned.  "Maybe they were mistaken.  Could we ask one of them?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "They won't talk to outsiders, and I don't have any contacts in this area.  I'll send Wiggins."  
  
"What do we do next?"  
  
"We speak with McFarlane's parents and learn what caused the rift between them and Oldacre."  


* * *

  
The McFarlane residence was a modest house in Blackheath, well-kept and neat.  The maid showed them into the parlour where Mrs. McFarlane, an Omega with a air of fragile beauty and dignity, rose to meet them.  She was clad in mourning and a glance at the pictures on the mantle showed a black band on the frame of an older man.  
  
"Lord Saughton," she said, holding out her hand in welcome.  "Lord Sherlock, I am so grateful that you have taken John's case.  That horrible, horrible man - he is behind this entire business, I _know_ he is."  
  
"Which man would that be?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Jonas Oldacre," she said bitterly.  "After all these years, he still won't let us alone."  
  
"I had understood that you were friends in your youth," Sherlock said.  
  
"Friends?" she replied, incredulously.  "He and I were betrothed by our fathers but he was a _monster_.  I had an aviary and he set a cat loose in it after opening all the cages, and then he laughed.  Laughed!"  
  
"You broke off your engagement?" John asked.  
  
"I wouldn't have been allowed to do so," Mrs. McFarlane told him.  "I had met Richard - he was clerk to my father's lawyer - and he offered to rescue me.  We eloped to Gretna Green, and I never regretted a day of our lives together.  My father struck my name from the family bible and cut me off without a farthing, but what was that compared to Richard's love?"  
  
"And Mr. Oldacre?  How did he take it?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Badly.  He had a portrait of me that was made for our engagement; he slashed it to ribbons and burned the frame, then sent both to us in a box wrapped as a wedding present.  He never forgave me for rejecting him."  
  
"He must have if he made your son his heir," John said.  
  
She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound.  "Not out of the goodness of his heart, I can tell you that!  Oh, I wish I had warned John about him, but how did I know that _He_ would come back into our lives?"  
  
"Mrs. McFarlane, how long ago did your husband die?  And may I inquire the cause?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Three months, although he was ill for two years."  She smiled sadly.  "Consumption.  The medical bills were quite large, so it was fortunate that John could take his father's position."  
  
They bid farewell to Mrs. McFarlane, promising to clear her son.  When they were in the carriage driving back to Baker Street, John looked over at Sherlock.  A thought had occurred to him - not a pleasant one, but it refused to go away.    
  
"The obituary would have appeared in the papers," John said slowly.  "And the bills from the creditors start from just before that date."  
  
Sherlock gave him a surprised look, a fond and pleased smile forming on his lips, the way one looks when one's pet does something particularly clever.  He nodded but stayed silent.    
  
Slowly, feeling his way through the murkiness of the case, John added, "Debt can drive a man to do desperate things."  
  
"Including murder, for it is nothing less," Sherlock said.    
  
"How can you prove it, though?" John asked.  "Without proof, they will hang McFarlane.  And where did the body come from?  There was a body, wasn't there?  A human body?"  
  
"It will have been sent to the morgue in London, as Bradstreet took custody of the case - we should send a note to Molly."  
  
They arrived back at Baker Street in time for tea.  While John wrote out the note for Molly and updated his case notes, Sherlock instructed Wiggins and sent him to Lower Norwood.  John almost didn't recognize Wiggins in the worn clothes he had donned but agreed that he would have more success dressed like one of the vagrants.  
  
Wiggins was back by the time they sat down to breakfast the next morning.  "You was right, m'lord," he told Sherlock.  "Oldacre had a bad name among the vagrants, even set his workers on them.  Then on Sunday there was a new fella, telling them how he'd been welcomed and fed, and was promised more if he came back the next night.  They ken he came into a right good bit as he din't come back that night or the next, so one o' them went up to the door on the Wednesday and was sent off with a flea in his ear by the missus."  
  
John and Sherlock exchanged a look.  "Molly sent a reply," John said.  "She has the body in her morgue.  Shall we take a look?"  
  
After taking a thorough look at the body, Sherlock sent a message to Gregson and Bradstreet, asking them to meet them at Lower Norwood.  They arrived first and Sherlock walked around the outside of the house again, peering up at it and then pacing off steps.  When Gregson arrived, they gained entry to the house and once again, Sherlock paced the empty sitting room on the ground floor before climbing the stairs to the first floor to once again pace the sitting room above.  He was examining the fireplace back on the ground floor with interest as Bradstreet joined them.  
  
"Ah, Bradstreet!" he said, turning to greet the Runner.  "I believe that there is an important witness that you haven't interviewed yet."  
  
"Where is this witness?" Bradstreet asked, looking puzzled.  
  
"We will have to summon him."  He turned to John.  "John, if you will fetch a bucket of water from the back porch, and Gregson, if you will bring up the straw I have set beside the front step?"    
  
Saying this, he turned and led the way upstairs.  John grabbed the bucket and by the time he reached the upstairs parlour, Gregson had set the damp straw in the fireplace.  Sherlock set a match to the straw and then, as it began smoking, turned to the other men.  
  
"If you will join me?" Sherlock said, and raised his voice in a cry of "fire!"    
  
Mystified, John joined him, shouting loudly, and Gregson first laughed and then joined in.  Bradstreet stood staring at the three as if they were quite mad, but a moment he turned to stare as a section of the wall beside the fireplace swung open.  A man stumbled out, coughing from the smoke.  
  
"Excellent!" Sherlock said.  "John, if you will douse the fire - we are quite done with it."  He turned to Bradstreet.  "I present the missing witness:  Mr. Jonas Oldacre."  
  
Bradstreet stared at the man standing before them incredulously.  "But - this is impossible!  If this is Oldacre, then whose body was in the wood pile?"  
  
"A vagrant, whose name we will likely never know," Sherlock said somberly.  "He received food from the housekeeper on Sunday with the promise of more food and a set of clothing if he came back on Monday.  He did and was given a cast-off set of clothing, then drugged into insensibility.  A trap was then set to entice Mr. McFarlane to Lower Norwood, and then once he left, the vagrant was placed in the shed.  It was doused with coal oil and set on fire, and once it had burned sufficiently to make it impossible to identify the body, the cry of 'fire' was raised."  
  
"But why?" Gregson asked, puzzled.  
  
"Two reasons," Sherlock replied.  "Mr. Oldacre had made several bad real estate investments and his creditors were hounding him.  Instead of selling his remaining properties and paying his debts as an honest man would, he devised a way to defraud them by creating another identity in another city and moving his money there.  Anxious that they wouldn't seek to find him, he decided that Oldacre needed to die.  As for why he chose McFarlane - it was pure spite and vengeance.  McFarlane's mother had refused to marry him years ago, choosing a far worthier man, and it had stuck in Oldacre's craw all these years."  
  
"She was a whore and a bitch, as all Omegas are, including you!" Oldacre snarled, launching himself at Sherlock.  John stepped between them, landing a sharp jab to Oldacre's chin that sent him staggering backward - and into the restraining arms of the two law men.  "I'll pay you back for this some day!" he threatened Sherlock.  
  
"As you'll be dancing at the end of a noose before long, that's an idle threat," Sherlock replied.  
  
"I have friends!  They'll see you pay - you and yours!" Oldacre snapped.  
  
"Get him out of here," Bradstreet said to Gregson, and he blew his whistle to summon the two constables on watch downstairs.    
  
As they dragged the swearing man downstairs, Sherlock turned to Bradstreet.  "You should take the housekeeper into custody as well.  While he was the mastermind behind this crime, she was clearly an accessory to the murder and had been bringing him food and drink while he hid."  
  
"How did you know about this place?" Bradstreet asked, peering into the hiding place.  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "It was a matter of proportions of the rooms.  The sitting room downstairs is larger than this one, but the room on the other side of this does not have the increased space."  
  
"Brilliant," John said, unable to help himself, then grinned when Sherlock looked over at him.  
  
"Thank you, John," Sherlock said gravely.  "I believe that our work is done here.  Bradstreet, I believe that you will find a visit to the morgue at St. Bart's informative.  If you have any further questions, you know where to find me."  
  
The next afternoon, John McFarlane came by Baker Street as soon as he was released from jail, to thank them personally for saving him from the noose.    
  
"I knew that Lord Sherlock would find out the truth," he said, heartily shaking John's hand and looking over at where Sherlock was lying on the sofa, for he was already lapsing into the boredom that beset him with the end of a case.  "I never doubted for a moment.  But what I don't understand is why Mr. Oldacre would go to such lengths.  I have never done him harm nor sought him out, even though I now understand that he was beastly to my mother while they were engaged."  
  
"Human nature can be incomprehensible," Sherlock said, bored.  "And it is said that those spurned in love can be the most vicious of foes."  
  
"And don't forget greed," John added.  "He was initially motivated by his desire to escape his creditors."  
  
"Speaking of greed," McFarlane said, "my clerk told me that there was an odd break-in at my offices while I was in jail."  
  
"Was anything of importance stolen?" Sherlock asked, showing a little interest.  
  
McFarlane shook his head.  "Just a trunk containing the personal effects of one of my former clients now deceased, being held until her relatives return to England, for they are missionaries.  Nothing valuable at all."  
  
Sherlock sat up, his gaze sharpening.  "Would your client have been Elizabeth Davenport?"  
  
McFarlane looked at him in surprise.  "Why - yes!  How did you know?"  
  
John gave Sherlock a concerned look.  "Do you think that this is connected?"  
  
"Unknown," he replied.  "I will need to make inquiries..."    
  
Sherlock strode out of the parlour and up the stairs, no doubt to peruse his crime board.  McFarlane took his leave of John, keen to return to his mother and reassure her as to his safety.  Once he'd closed the door behind their client, John hurried up to join in husband in trying to sort out this latest piece of their puzzle.

* * *

 

The next morning John woke to an empty bed, which was not surprising.  Sherlock had been up late the night before, staring at the wall, deep in thought, when John had finally gone up to bed.  He had been awakened in the middle of the night by Sherlock sliding into bed and curling around him, so at least he'd slept a little.  
  
He found his husband in the dining room, pacing back and forth and muttering, the newspaper lying discarded discarded by his plate.  
  
"What's wrong?" John asked, amused as he watched Sherlock pace.  "Did they forget to print the most pertinent facts of the Norwood Builder case?"  He picked up the paper just as Sherlock lunged for it.  
  
"John, don't!"  
  
"What?" John turned the paper over to look at the front of the paper and then froze.  
  
In bold print, the headlines read " **Lost Watson Heir Denied Title**! _by Kitty Riley_ "  
  
Feeling suddenly numb, John sat down in the nearest chair and rapidly scanned the article.  As he'd suspected, it was about Moriarty, the consistory court hearing and its results.  Kitty Riley had not spared any heartstrings, writing how young Moriarty had been sent to his Irish relatives as a young lad, "for his safety", had been rejected yet again and taken in by his cousin, Augustus, Viscount Blessington.  Years later, when seeking permission to marry Sebastian Moran, Blessington's son, he'd sought out his birth records in vain, for the church where he'd been baptised had been burnt down by rebels, as had the records office in Dublin.  It was by sheerest luck that he'd learned, on his first visit to London, that there might be a copy in Somerset House.  That was when he'd discovered the names of his parents, James Watson, Earl of Saughton, and Sarah Murphy.  Kitty Riley told, with moving words, how he'd sought out his mother and wept with his head in her lap when he finally found her, destitute and "attempting to live a life of dignity in the squalor that James Watson had abandoned her to" while he went on to bigamously marry a rich Society heiress.  
  
"However Right and Law prevailed," John read aloud, sensing a triumphant tone to Kitty Riley's words, "and James Murphy-Watson, Lord Moriarty, was proved the legitimate son and heir, despite his father's wicked scheming.  Alas! due to the Draconian laws of our time, as an Omega Lord Moriarty cannot inherit the title to which he is entitled.  One would have thought that John Watson, currently holding the title of Earl of Saughton, who has frequently decried the unfair treatment of Omegas in the House of Lords and in his fanciful little stories - "  
  
"Fanciful!" Sherlock burst out, furiously.  "There is nothing fanciful about your stories!  A little overly romanticized at times, and you do tend to leave out all the most interesting facts, but they are not _fanciful_!"  
  
John looked up at Sherlock in disbelief.  "Really?  That's the part that upset you?"  
  
"Go on," Sherlock said, gesturing towards the paper.  "It gets even more appalling and incredulous, if you can imagine that."  
  
John looked back down at the paper.  " - in his fanciful little stories, would have yielded the title to its rightful heir, but it appears that his words are lip service alone.  This reporter also wonders if his husband, currently titled Viscount Saughton, is aware of his husband's lack of genuine respect for Omega rights.  Lamentably, Lord Moriarty does not know if Lord Sherlock dwells in blissful ignorance, for the Watson family has not seen fit to welcome him into the Bosom of his Family."  
  
John cast down the paper in disgust and looked over at Sherlock who was leaning against the dining room mantle, staring into the fire.  "Sherlock, you know that isn't true," he said.  "My respect for you, for all Omegas, is genuine.  If I could yield the title, I - "  He paused and then added, truthfully, "Well, I wouldn't yield it to _him_ , but that's because I don't trust him an inch, not because he's an _Omega_."  
  
Sherlock had lifted his head and there was an amused look on his face as he stared at his husband.  "John, I am quite aware that you are a good and moral man, and that your words and thoughts on that matter are genuine.  You are my moral compass, a fixed point in a changing age."  
  
John couldn't help blushing a bit at that, and as he ducked his head to hide this, his eyes landed back on the paper.  "What should we do with this?" he said, gesturing to it.  
  
"If we kept a canary, I would suggest using it to paper the bottom of its cage, for that's all it's fit for," Sherlock replied.  "Lacking such, I suggest tossing it into the fire."  
  
"I meant the _accusations_ , for there's no doubt that's what they are," John said.  
  
Sherlock sighed.  "There is not much that we can do.  The facts behind that bit of histrionic bleating are true, and any attempt to refute them would make us look ridiculous.  You can't resign the title - and even if you did, Helen would inherit, not Moriarty, for she is the next legal heir, according to the Lyon King of Arms.  And she can't resign the title for she is under-age, and her trustees - myself and Lestrade - are not even allowed to resign it _for_ her."  
  
"Precisely," John said, balling up the offending paper and tossing it into the flames.  "So I fail to see the point in this sensational little article."  
  
" _Scandal_ is the point, John," Sherlock said.  "I wouldn't be surprised if we received the cut direct from several members of the _Ton_ at the next party we attend."  
  
"Then we won't go, and good-riddance to them all!" John said fiercely.  "This petty little story won't destroy us, and anyone who refuses to admit us is no true friend of ours."  
  
"What interests me more is the reason for the publication of this story, and on the front page no less," Sherlock mused.  "You know who owns this paper?"  
  
John frowned and shook his head, not having paid any particular attention to those sorts of things.  
  
"Charles Augustus Magnussen."  
  
"Oh, God!" John said.  "This is _his_ doing - it is revenge for my dismissal of him!"  
  
"In part, although I suspect that there is a deeper game being played here, with Magnussen and Moriarty both moving pieces," Sherlock replied.  
  
"I don't regret sending him away," John said defiantly.  "If I'd done as he wanted, we'd never have been out from under his thumb."  
  
"No," Sherlock agreed, but there was a thoughtful expression on his face.  "Which makes me wonder: what _exactly_ was in that letter that he attempted to dangle so enticingly in front of you?"  
  
"Sherlock," John said, recognizing with foreboding the intent look on his husband's face.  "What are you planning?"  
  
"Nothing at present," Sherlock replied reassuringly.  "However, I think it is time for us to investigate Charles Magnussen."


	52. Part IV: Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John attempt to unravel the tangled skeins of Magnussen, Moriarty, and the Murphy family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted, as always, to Ariane DeVere for her transcripts. Some dialogue from Sherlock BBC was used here, as well as some ACD canon.
> 
> Originally this chapter and the next were combined, but it was running so long that I thought that I should break them. Which means that the next chapter will be up in just a few days. And yes, you can see the chapter count is going up but that should be the top.

Sherlock's first attempt at infiltrating Magnussen's house, called Appledore Towers and located in Hampstead, was an abysmal failure.  Employing several members of his network, he attempted to get at least one of them hired on as a footman, a housemaid, a coachman, or a scullery maid.  None of them made it past the back door for so much as an interview.  Magnussen's household might have been small, but his manservant ran it with an iron fist and a suspicious eye on strangers.  
  
Sherlock's next idea was to disguise himself as a plumber and, with the excuse of tending to a plumbing repair, court the cook in an attempt to spy out the house.  That was where John, reluctantly, had to put his foot down.  
  
"No," he said firmly, trying to ignore the hurt look on Sherlock's face.  "Setting aside the fact that it is dishonest and you'd be hurting the feelings of an innocent woman, it wouldn't work.  You might be weaning Helen but you still carry the scent of a nursing Omega.  Even a Beta couldn't miss that."  
  
Sherlock scowled and flung himself into his chair.  "Then what do you suggest?" he demanded, irritably.  "We _must_ get our hands on the information in that letter, and our only hope is someone on the inside."  
  
"Then why don't you try to make an _ally_?" John asked, practically.  "Someone in that house must have a hobby or habit that you can exploit."  Sherlock looked at him as if he was speaking a foreign language.  "Does the coachman spend his evenings at the local sharing a pint with his mates?  Is the footman a secret gambler?  Does the housemaid have a fondness for strolling in the local park?  Who is the cook's green-grocer?"  
  
Sherlock's face lit up.  "John, you're a genius!"  He rushed off, no doubt to set his Irregulars to work gathering information about the habits of the inhabitants of Appledore Towers.

* * *

While Sherlock pursued information on the mysterious Magnussen, January turned to February.  Parliament opened at the start of February and John failed to see what could have caught Magnussen's interest.  He couldn't be interested in the Army and Navy pensions or the repayment of the loan to Austria.  Changes to the Marriage Act might have been promising, except that they only defined the right to grant marriage licenses.  In the House of Commons, penalties for Forgery had been voiced but nothing formal presented, and while the proposed bill for the Abolishment of Slavery looked promising, it also hadn't made it to the First Reading in the House of Commons.  
  
Sherlock was not having much more success with the Magnussen or Moriarty cases.  While he had befriended the cook, Agnes, progress was slow and he hadn't yet learned where Magnussen kept the documents nor a way to access them.  McFarlane had given them the inventory of Elizabeth Davenport's material possessions and Sherlock hadn't seen anything of interest among them.  There had been letters from her relatives, some books, a few mementoes from past beaux, a few forms and notes regarding her work.  Nothing that would seem to appeal to a thief. 

It was fortunate that the flow of new cases continued or John knew that Sherlock would descend into an epic sulk.  The Runners and local constabulary brought puzzles his way, and a few clients made the trip to London specifically to seek out Sherlock's aid.  Once such client was Omega Helen Stoner, whom Sherlock's quick wit saved from a painful death by snake venom.  The young woman's step-father had been misusing the young woman's fortune, which he had control of by law, and her impending marriage had threatened to reveal his perfidy.  Sherlock also proved that Dr. Roylett had been responsible for the mysterious disease that had struck down Helen's older sister, Julia, causing her to break out in a peculiar speckled rash.  The entire matter incensed John, and when he was approached about co-sponsoring a bill allowing Omegas to control their own income and fortunes, he readily agreed despite his lack of interest in politics.  Having had its First Reading in the House of Lords, it was now being printed.  
  
Another client was an old school friend of Sherlock's who asked him to solve the mysterious disappearance of his butler after he had stolen a document describing an old family Ritual.  Reginald Musgrave had been most assiduous in his entreaty, and as the disappearance of the butler was shortly followed by a nervous breakdown of one of the maids culminating in her own disappearance, Sherlock had agreed to a brief sojourn at Hurlstone, accompanied by John, Helen, and their nanny.  Wiggins was apparently in the thick of the Magnussen investigation so Johnson accompanied them in his place.  Unfortunately, while Sherlock was able to find Brunton, he had perished in the hidden treasure-hold of the house.  Rebecca, the maid, had apparently been witness to the event and it had driven her into a mad flight, although no one knew what had become of her after that.  However, Sherlock was able to place into Musgrave's hands the ancient crown of England, which his family had been entrusted with over a hundred years earlier.

Apart from cases, London was thin of company this early in the Season.  Helen's first birthday was celebrated among her closest family, with Mycroft and Lestrade in attendance.  Harry and Clara weren't there as they had not yet made the trip to London.  They planned to bring all of the children with them to London this year; it would be the younger children's first trip to London as Janet had always preferred to leave them behind in Saughton with the nanny when she came to London for the Season.  Clara seemed determined to make it an enjoyable trip for all, and it was clear that she also hoped to seal an engagement between Georgia and some eligible member of the Ton.  They had arranged to take a large house in St. James' Woods, near to Baker Street, and would be arriving after Easter.

As March began, members of the Ton began to drift back to London for the start of the Season.  Moriarty was much to be seen, even this early, and every hostess appeared to be in competition for him as a guest at their dinner tables and salons.  The Society columns were full of his comings and goings, telling of the balls he opened and the soirées he attended.  When a new opera premièred at the Drury Lane theatre, he was prominently seated in one of the best boxes.  Kitty Riley had published another article on Moriarty, this one even more pointedly against the Saughton family, making John long to shake her.  All the fawning over Moriarty would have made John laugh if it hadn't turned his stomach.  
  
The only bright spot was that, despite his fears, neither he nor Sherlock were openly shunned at the few events they attended.  They did not accept many invitations as a rule, but Sherlock did enjoy an evening at Almack's, and they had a few friends who they did not like to turn down.  John had to endure the curiosity of his fellows but after a few weeks the nine-days-wonder of it all died out.

March was coming to an end and the House of Lords had recessed for the Easter holidays when the Magnussen matter next reared its head.  John had spent a pleasant hour at White's, having repaired there with other members of the Minority to celebrate the Second Reading of the Separate Economy for Omegas bill.  While there had been some bluster from members of the Majority, the bill had been sent to committee and John was hopeful for its eventual success.  
  
"I say, Lord Saughton," a representative from the House of Commons said, coming up to him.  "Did you hear about the inquiry being suggested over on our side?"  
  
John frowned slightly; not being a politician, he rarely paid attention to what was happening unless it pertained to something dear to his heart or his morals.  "No, I hadn't."  
  
"Bennet brought up a Complaint against the _Courier_ , regarding an article they printed about a closed matter being discussed in the Commons. And then Colonel Barry rose with a complaint against the whole of the British press.  He said, quite earnestly, that 'unless something be done, the press will become our masters, instead of we being theirs.'  Peel spoke against bringing the printers under scrutiny at this time, but there was strong sentiment that the subject be addressed when Parliament returns."  
  
"And why would this be of interest to me?"  
  
The man looked at him in surprise.  "Those articles by Miss Riley - "  
  
John drew in a deep breath.  "While I deplore the tone of her writings, Miss Riley is entitled to write her stories.  She has not, as far as I know, printed any outright lies although she may have stretched the truth considerably."

The other man frowned and shook his head.  "In your place, I don't think I'd be so forgiving.  Dashed awkward for you and your family, having people talk about you.  And appearing in the papers!"

John agreed but mention of Riley had ruined his celebratory mood.  He bid farewell to his companions and started walking homeward, thinking about what was to be done about Kitty Riley when a carriage stopped beside him.  The door opened and a man descended, holding the door open for John.  
  
"Lord Saughton," he said with the air of one relaying a message.  "A word, if you please."  
  
John sighed but climbed into the carriage.  As he had expected, it stopped in a deserted warehouse near the Port of London.  
  
"Mycroft, I thought we'd gotten beyond this - " John said as he stepped down from the carriage.  He stopped abruptly as he saw that the slender man waiting for him was not Mycroft but instead Charles Magnussen.  He drew himself up.  "Mr. Magnussen.  I trust that you have an explanation for this abduction?"  
  
Magnussen ignored him, turning to the man who had accompanied John.  "Search him."  
  
John gave a squawk of protest as the carriage driver came up behind him to hold his arms while the other man checked the pockets of his coat for weapons.  As John only carried his revolver on cases they found nothing, but being roughly man-handled rankled so John was in an even more irate frame of mind when they released him.  
  
"What do you want, Magnussen?" he snapped.  "Or should I go to the Runners and swear out a complaint for kidnapping and assault?"  
  
"So cocky, like a little rooster strutting in the barnyard," Magnussen said, amused.  He pulled out his handkerchief, wiping his hands, his eyes focused on them instead of John.  "Have you learned nothing from recent events?"  
  
"So it was you behind Miss Riley's story, as we thought," John snapped.  
  
"Oh, don't say 'we'," Magnussen said, amused.  "You are a brave little soldier but hardly intelligent.  No, it was your lovely Omega husband who determined that.  I _like_ him." He paused in wiping his hands, smirking a little.  "Yes, I allowed Miss Riley's story to be printed.  A fanciful piece but I expect that it will do the work intended."  
  
John frowned slightly at that.  "I don't understand."  
  
"No, I don't suppose that you do.  I will ask your husband to explain it to you, in simple words."  
  
John clenched his fists and took a step toward Magnussen.  "Don't you dare go near Sherlock!" he snarled.  He would have punched the man but his two servants grabbed John's arms, holding him fast.  
  
"So like a bull pup, snarling and snapping at the heels," Magnussen said, smiling thinly.  "One does wonder what such a brilliant mind as Sherlock Holmes' finds of interest in _you_."  
  
"I'd say that you should ask him, but if you even approach him, I _will_ kill you," John growled.  
  
Magnussen sighed.  "You are really very dull.  Have you thought any further about the matter that I first discussed with you?"  
  
"That letter?  You want me to obey your instructions when I don't even know what the contents are?" John snorted.  "Not bloody likely!"  
  
"Pity," Magnussen said.  "There is another party interested in the letter and I am a businessman."  
  
"Another party?  Then why come to me in the first place?"

"Oh, I would much prefer to deal with you and your kind - so much more predictable.  When one deals with sharks, one is likely to be bitten."

This didn't make any sense to John; he had a feeling that a second conversation was taking place that he wasn't party to.  While he was accustomed to not understanding everything that Sherlock said, at least his husband didn't make him feel like a cloth-head.  "I don't understand."  
  
Magnussen made a distasteful face.  "You should have that embroidered, perhaps on a handkerchief.  It would save you considerable time."    
  
"What do you want?" John demanded again.  "Besides my votes and my influence with Mycroft."

Magnussen finished wiping his hands and lifted his head, meeting John's eyes for the first time during this encounter.  "I am afraid that my price has gone up, Lord Saughton.  Supply and demand, you see. There are several matters coming before Parliament that I wish you to vote as I instruct you."  
  
"There are no bills up before Parliament that you could be interested in, not any that that I have a vote on - unless you object to the Separate Economy Act."  
  
"While your amusing little entrée into the world of politics is not without interest, it will actually makes matters much easier for me," Magnussen replied.  "An Omega who has control of their own money will be better able to settle their account with me.  So you have my thanks for that.  No, the first matter is a Breach of Privilege investigation that is to be started once the House sits again.  You will see that it is squashed before it goes any further.  Then I will let you know about the others as they occur; I believe that I will quite enjoy having my own little puppet sitting in the Lords."  
  
"Not. Bloody. Likely," John repeated.  
  
Ignoring him, Magnussen said, "And you will also instruct your brother-in-law to use his considerable influence to ensure that the Breach of Privilege Investigation is stifled in the House of Commons as well.  Otherwise - well, Omegas are so vulnerable, aren't they?  Particularly the young."  
  
John drew in a sharp breath at this threat against Helen.  
  
"You begin to understand," Magnussen said approvingly, taking a step closer to John.  Disdain was clearly written on his face.  "You English - you are a nation of sheep.  All of you bleat and bluster, so loud in your posturing, but threaten your precious hearths and you back down like the cattle you are.  Fodder for the rest of us.  Perhaps when I am done with England, I will find a more challenging country to play with."  
  
He reached out and flicked his fingers against John's cheek.  The sudden sharp pain startled John so much that for a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but pull against the arms holding him.  
  
"So soft and sensible, keeping your little heads down.  So domesticated," Magnussen said, flicking John once more.  "I could walk into your houses and do anything.  I could...relieve myself in your fireplace, for instance, and you would just mutter 'tut-tut' and look away.  And I think that when you finally agree to my terms, Lord Saughton, then I will flick your eye.  My cook, Agnes, flinches so _delightfully_ when I do that."  
  
A third flick on his cheek, and John had had enough.  There might have been two men holding his arms but John had been a soldier, and as a doctor he knew the vulnerabilities of the human body.  In a few minutes he had put both men on the floor and then turned on Magnussen.  The other man had been startled by John's sudden action and still stood with his hand outstretched. 

John grabbed his arm in a vice grip, forcing Magnussen to meet his eyes.  Gone was the caring doctor, the mild nobleman, and in their place was the battle-hardened soldier who had seen death and worse. 

"Don't. Ever. Do. That. _Again_ ," John said, his voice low and deadly.  "Don't come near me again.  Don't come anywhere near my family.  Or, by _God_ , you will regret it."  
  
Releasing Magnussen's arm, John turned on his heel and walked out of the warehouse.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't home when John arrived but Helen was delighted to see John when he went up to visit the nursery.  She toddled over to him, showing off her newly-developed walking skills although she still preferred to crawl for speed.  She babbled at him, only one in five words recognizable, and he pretended to listen very seriously and reply in return.  At her imperious gesture, he got down on his hands and knees to give her a piggy-back ride, and as he listened to her laughter, he thought that he had rarely been happier.  It was his favourite time of the day, when he got to spend a few minutes in the nursery with his daughter.  This, what he had here, was worth protecting at any cost.  And for the first time, he gave serious thought to Sherlock's idea about having another child sooner rather than later.  
  
Helen's supper arrived and as the maid settled her at the table, John drew Annie aside.  
  
"Helen is doing well," he said.    
  
"Very well, m'lord," Annie assured him, glancing over at where Helen was excitedly banging her spoon on the table.  "She is a bright, happy child."  
  
"Good."  John paused, not certain how to approach the fear that had sent him up here the moment he arrived home.  "When you go for your walks... Does anyone seem particularly interested in her, not in a good way?"  
  
"Not that I've noticed, m'lord," Annie replied.    
  
"Perhaps..."  John licked his lips, trying to voice his fears without scaring the young woman.   "It might be a good idea to have Johnson or Wiggins accompany you and Helen on your airings, just for a the next few months."  
  
Annie smiled at him.  "Lord Sherlock already instructed us on that matter, m'lord.  Helen will be safe; you needn't worry."  
  
"Oh," John said, a little flustered and chagrined at being the last to know.  "Good."  He looked over at Helen and smiled.  "I'll leave you to your supper, then."  
  
Sherlock was in their sitting room, glaring at the uncovered crime wall, when John returned from the nursery.  He glanced over quickly before focusing back on the wall, then turned to look at John again, this time with more attention.  
  
"Something upset you today," he said, his gaze flicking over John.  "You went up to see Helen the moment you returned home - you haven't changed to your house shoes as you habitually do before going up to see her.  So either a personal scare or someone threatened you."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Magnussen," Sherlock said flatly.  "He spoke to you, too."  
  
"He damn-well kidnapped me!" John replied.  "Took me to a warehouse by the river - I thought it was your brother!  Wait.  You said 'too' - did that _bastard_ have the gall to approach you?"  
  
"Yes."  Sherlock's jaw tightened.  "I was at St. Bart's, examining a corpse for Molly.  He accosted me in the stairway and was...very unpleasant."  
  
John grabbed Sherlock's arm, turning him to face him.  "Did he trifle with you in any way?"  Sherlock scowled and John said, quickly, "I know that you are well-able to protect yourself, but my honour is involved."  
  
Sherlock sighed and placed his hands on either side of John's face, meeting his eyes directly.  "John.  He touched my hand and said some very unpleasant things but he didn't hurt me.  Don't do something stupid, like confronting him - that's what he wants.  He wants to ruin you."  
  
John drew in a deep breath.  Touching a married Omega's bare hand - and John had no doubt that Magnussen had removed Sherlock's glove or he wouldn't have mentioned it - had long been a duelling offence, but now duelling was illegal and no matter the outcome, John would be ruined.  And he knew that Sherlock hated stereotypical Alpha behaviour, and how he disliked the insinuation that he needed to be protected.  
  
"All right," John agreed, reluctantly.  "But if he approaches you again, I will swear out a complaint against him with the Runners."  
  
"Agreed."  Sherlock dropped his hands and John released him as well.  "Did he tell you any more about the letter he holds?"  
  
"Just that someone else is interested in it as well."  John gave him a wry smile.  "He spent most of the time insulting me."  
  
"That does seem to be his stock-in-trade," Sherlock said drily.  "I wonder who that 'other interested' person might be."  
  
"The one who wrote it?" John hazarded.  "Neither of us did, and none of my family.  If it was from Mycroft or Lestrade then Magnussen would have approached one of them - that would be a much more direct way to get Mycroft under his thumb."  
  
Sherlock frowned and turned back to his wall.  There was a card, pinned below Magnussen's name, with the word "letter?" written on it, and he removed it, then looked over the other names.  
  
"Elizabeth Davenport's box that was stolen contained letters.  Magnussen already had the letter, so its theft wasn't his doing.  Perhaps her killer thought she had this letter; it wasn't on her person so they stole the box."  
  
"What about Jennifer Wilson?" John said, also looking over the wall.  "We know that several things were stolen from her room - her family bible, for one thing.  Maybe the murderer thought this letter was inside it.  The landlady there seemed to be one for the main chance - perhaps she stole the letter first and sold it to Magnussen.  But what would Jennifer Wilson know that could be of importance to me?"  
  
"And there is James Philimore," Sherlock said.  "We don't know why he was singled out for murder.  Being from Dublin is surely not enough of a reason - not unless you believe in Mycroft's Irish Rebels conspiracy.  Maybe this letter was supposed to be on him."  
  
John frowned slightly.  There was something about Dublin recently.... "What did he do in Dublin?"  
  
"One assumes that he was a deacon with one of the churches there, since he was a deacon here."  
  
John went to his desk and opened the drawer, pulling out the notebook where he'd made case notes.  "He worked with the records office in Dublin."  
  
"Adair was investigating arsons around Dublin," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed.  "And Riley's abominable story in the paper said that Moriarty's parish church and the records office had been damaged by fire."  
  
John looked up, excitement bubbling in his veins.  "What if this letter has something to do with those murders - we never did learn who Hope's patron was.  Instructions from him to Hope, or something that identifies him in some way."  Then he frowned.  "By why would Magnussen think that would be of interest to me?  You, perhaps - tying up the loose threads."  
  
"It could be pivotal to that - or to half a dozen things!" Sherlock said in frustration.  "Magnussen pointed out that your brother never wrote letters and yet Sarah had several letters from him - this letter could be pertinent to that.  And if it somehow refuted her letters, cast doubts on their marriage, that would be of interest to you.  Alternately, we know that James was murdered - this could point to his murderer, provide the proof we need." 

He strode over to the sofa and flung himself down on it.  "There is nothing else for it, John.  We have to obtain that letter."  
  
"And how do you propose to do that?" John asked.  "Have you made any inroads with the cook?  Magnussen mentioned her, by the way.  Apparently he likes to flick her eye to torment her."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "So she has told me," he said soberly.  "She has a daughter and Magnussen holds that information, and the child, against her."  
  
John frowned.  "How?"  
  
"She had the child out of wedlock, and if that was known she would not be able to hold a respectable position in any household.  You know all too well what fate befalls Betas and Omegas who are unlucky enough to be seduced and then bear a child.  Even if they give up their child for adoption, the stigma hangs over them.  They are turned off, without a character, and rarely find another post."  
  
John nodded; prostitution and abject poverty was usually the lot of these poor unfortunates.    
  
"Magnussen kept her on, even set up a home and a nursemaid to look after the child, but he keeps its location from Agnes.  She is allowed to see Jeanine- that's the child -twice a month for a half-day, and even that is threatened to be taken away if she crosses him."  
  
Appalled, John said, "We should do something to help her!"  
  
"Plans are already in place, John," Sherlock assured him.  "One of the Irregulars followed the nursemaid home after the past two meetings and I have the address, should we need to remove the child for her safety.  What is needed is a place for Agnes and her daughter to stay, one out of Magnussen's reach.  What makes it even more difficult is that Agnes refuses charity, insists on working for her keep."  He sighed.  
  
Thinking quickly, John said, "I think that I have the answer for you." He rang the bell and turned back to Sherlock.  "Is Sussex far enough from his reach?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "Sussex?"  
  
Mrs. Hudson entered and John turned to her.  "Mrs. Hudson, is your sister still looking for a cook and companion?"  
  
"Why, yes she is," Mrs. Hudson replied, looking perplexed.  "It's hard to find someone willing to live a quiet country life.  Most run off to Brighton within a few weeks of taking the post."  
  
"And would she object to a young widow with a small child?"  
  
"Bless you, no!" Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.  "She would be pleased to have a little one around the place."  
  
"Thank you.  We will inform the young woman and let you know her decision."  
  
 "One of your cases, then!"  
  
"Yes, and the woman is uncomfortable in her present situation."  
  
"Poor dear," she said sympathetically.  "Dinner will be ready in an hour, gentlemen."  She disappeared down the stairs again.  
  
Sherlock sprang up from the sofa and embraced John.  "Brilliant, John!  That is the solution to Agnes's problem, and possibly to ours.  She will be in the park on Friday, and I will present the offer to her.  Then we will see what she can do for us in obtaining that letter."  
  
"You will need to secure a marriage license for her," John cautioned.  "Mrs. Hudson's sister might not mind but I am sure the community would not be as forgiving.  And a ring as well."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "I know an excellent forger, and Wiggins can procure a ring."  
  
"Speaking of Wiggins," John said, "I spoke with Annie this evening, and she told me that you've instructed one of the men to accompany her when she takes Helen on an airing.  It was an excellent thought."  
  
Sherlock had looked wary at John's words but now he relaxed and nodded.  "My growing notoriety and your title could make Helen a target, and it's wise to be cautious."  
  
John smiled.  "You're a good man.  I wish I'd thought of it before today."  
  
Sherlock shrugged, then went back to studying the wall.  "It still doesn't solve our dilemma."

* * *

On Friday, Sherlock returned to the house from his meeting with Magnussen's cook, Agnes, with a spring in his step.    
  
"It is settled, John!" he announced, flinging off the driving coat and hat that he wore to disguise himself for these meetings.  "Agnes is pleased to accept the position and agrees to present herself as a young widow. We are to meet on Sunday afternoon once she has served Magnussen's midday meal, then Wiggins will escort both Agnes and her daughter to Sussex.  Mrs. Hudson goes to her sister's house tomorrow, so she will be able to prepare her for Agnes's arrival.  The papers will be ready tomorrow."  
  
"Sunday?" John repeated.  "You do realize that Sunday is Easter Day."  
  
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.    
  
"Well, there might be at least _one_ ," John said.  "Wiggins won't be able to hire a carriage that day, and possibly not on the Monday after, either."  
  
Sherlock scowled.  "It has to be _that day_!  Most of the staff has been given a holiday so the house will be nearly empty, and Magnussen retires early on Sundays.  Agnes herself has been given the evening to spend with her daughter and is not expected back until mid-day on Monday.  By then she will outside of his reach."  
  
"Sherlock, just what is it that you intend to do that requires an empty house?  I thought that Agnes was going to tell you the contents of the letter."  
  
He shook his head.  "She doesn't have access to his study - only Magnussen and his manservant are allowed in the room, and the valet is never left in there alone.  That is where he keeps his blackmail material, so I must go into the house to get it.  I intend to burglarise Magnussen's house that night."  
  
John's first reaction was distress, although not for the illegal nature of the act.  Magnussen was repellent and broke the law with his actions, so to break in to obtain those documents was morally justifiable even if technically criminal.  No, what bothered John was the idea of Sherlock venturing into the lion's den alone, and the risks if he was caught.  
  
"Well, I don't like it, but when do we start?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "You are not coming."  
  
John raised his chin.  "Then you are not going."  
  
"John, be sensible!" Sherlock appealed.  "If we are caught, both of us, then Helen will be left unprotected, without either parent."  
  
"Then you'd best plan carefully so that we are not caught," John returned.  "But if we are, I will stand buff."  
  
Sherlock's frustrated look quickly gave way to grudging admiration and even amusement.  "Very well - I know how stubborn you are by now!  We have been sharing married life for two years now, and it would be amusing if we end up sharing the same jail cell for the next five."  
  
John couldn't help laughing at that, even through his anxiety.  "So what is the plan?"  
  
"Once we have learned Magnussen's schedule from Agnes, we will go to the house and wait outside till the few remaining household members have retired.  I have a housebreaking kit, and once inside we will make our way to Magnussen's study.  We will need quiet shoes - have you a pair?"    
  
John nodded.  "And I can make a pair of masks from black silk socks."  
  
"I can see that you have a natural affinity for the work," Sherlock said, amused.  "It is a good thing for society that neither of us is of a criminal bent.  Oh, and John - don't bring your gun.  If we are caught, we will surrender rather than risk an assault or murder charge as well."  
  
John agreed, and he tried to ignore the frisson of excitement he felt at the thought of the risky enterprise they were planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the spring session of Parliament in 1823, problems with newspapers and the articles they published (some of them leaking information about closed House sessions) were brought up several times in the House of Commons. The conversation in White's is drawn from the [actual records of the May 8th session](http://hansard.millbanksystems.com/commons/1823/may/08/breach-of-privilege-complaint-against). The more things change, the more they stay the same.
> 
> There will be a corresponding chapter shortly in "A Convenient Regency Marriage" covering Sherlock's meeting with Magnussen.


	53. Part IV: Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to Appledore Towers in search of the mysterious document.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A blend of ACD canon and BBC, with some scenes and dialogue for both. I am indebted to ACD for the canon and to Ariane DeVere for the transcripts of the BBC.
> 
> And yes, the child is Jeanine here and Janine in BBC - not a typo. "Janine" wasn't used until more modern times. However, Kitty's last name was misspelled last chapters and I will fix that.

On Sunday afternoon, after attending Easter services (but, John admitted, paying little attention to the readings or the sermon), they took a stroll through the park with Helen in her pram, as Annie had been given a half-day off.  The day was fine and they were hardly the only family enjoying a stroll between church and dinner.  Sherlock pointed out Agnes to John, and if he had been inclined to be a jealous man, he would have worried that Sherlock had been spending time with this woman.  She was dark-haired and lovely with a hint of exotic beauty, and John would not have been surprised to learn that her mother's people had been _emigres_ from the past unpleasantness in France.  
  
Agnes was approached by a uniformed woman of stern visage pushing a pram, and John and Sherlock carefully remained at a distance but watched carefully.  The nursemaid clearly had plans of her own for she consulted the watch pinned to her apron twice.  Once she had hurried off, they increased their pace until they fell into step beside Agnes, under the pretence of admiring her child and inviting her to admire theirs in return.  And little Jeanine was indeed a lovely child of about nine months, inheriting her mother's dark beauty.  Sherlock bent closer to admire her, slipping into the carriage a wallet with the necessary documents as well as a small purse to take care of their needs during the journey.  
  
"You've brought what you absolutely needed from the house?  It will be too dangerous to go back there." Sherlock asked her in a low voice.  
  
"Yes," she said, her face pinched as she touched the basket hanging from her arm.  "There is little that I wish to keep that is not tainted by that house."  
  
"Basic provisions for you and your child have been provided, and Wiggins is waiting at the corner of the park with a closed carriage," Sherlock informed her quietly.  "He will convey you both immediately to an inn on the Brighton road for tonight, and then to East Dean in Sussex, where your new employer is waiting to welcome you with open arms.  She is no doubt a kindly woman for her sister is such.  You may tell her whatever story you wish about your late husband, or tell her nothing, for she will not insist."  
  
Tears formed in Agnes's eyes.  "I can't believe that I'll be free of that monster at last.  Thank you!  For both of us!"  
  
"It's our pleasure," John said.  "We hope you will have a happy life."  
  
Agnes nodded, then reached out her hand as if to shake their hands farewell, slipping a small folded square into Sherlock's hand.  "The layout of the ground floor," she said quietly.  "Mr. Magnussen always retires as half-ten, and his bedroom is at the other end of the first floor.  He is a notoriously heavy sleeper, and his manservant sleeps in his dressing room, to be ready to attend the master.  The rest of the staff have a holiday and aren't expected back before tomorrow morning."  She gave them both an anxious look.  "You will be careful?"  
  
John nodded and Sherlock said, "Of a certainty.  You need have no other thoughts on the matter - in fact, it would be best if you forget you ever heard the name of Charles Magnussen."  
  
"That is one order that I will be pleased to follow."  
  
The path branched before them and, after tipping their hats in farewell, the Watson-Holmes family took the left fork while Agnes proceeded along the right.  John glanced back after a few minutes to see Agnes approached by Wiggins who helped her into a carriage waiting along the street.  Wiggins handed up the baby and then sprang into the carriage before they drove away at a leisurely pace, as befit a Sunday carriage ride.  No doubt Sherlock had instructed him to change carriages before leaving town, just to ensure that they weren't followed.    
  
Turning his attention back to the path, he escorted his husband and daughter back home for their Easter dinner, and tried not to think about the plans for the evening.

* * *

That evening, John stopped by the night-nursery and exchanged a few words with Annie about her half-holiday as she sat mending one of Helen's dresses.  Then he stood for a long moment looking down at his sleeping daughter in her crib, hoping that they were not about to do something incredibly stupid.  There were instructions left on the desk just in case the worst happened, so that Helen would be well cared for, but John had every confidence in Sherlock's plan.  He pressed a kiss against Helen's temple and then, bidding goodnight to the nanny, went down the stairs to the master bedroom.  
  
Sherlock had already changed into dark garments, long black trousers that fastened under his feet, a close-fitting dark shirt, and a pair of soft-soled shoes on his feet.  A long dark cloak and a ridiculous deerstalker hat lay on the bed, ready to be donned.  He looked as unlike himself as possible, which John supposed was the point.  
  
John hurriedly changed his own clothes, choosing dark wool trousers and shirt more common to a labourer.  A dark cloth cap on his head hid his blond hair, and a fitted dark jacket completed his wardrobe.  He tucked the masks that he'd made in his pocket and, reluctantly leaving his revolver behind, joined Sherlock.  
  
They slipped out the back door of the silent house, leaving the latch-key out so that they could get back in, and then through the gate into the mews.  They walked for a few blocks, towards St John's Woods, where they hailed a cab to take them to Hampstead.  Paying the cabbie in small coins that wouldn't be noted, they turned up the collars of their outer garments and walked briskly along the streets until they reached the narrow alley that led to the back gate.  Here they paused in the dark shade of a row of laurels to put on their masks, concealing the paleness of their skin, and then quietly walked along the fence that enclosed Appledore.  It was by then eleven at night and there was not a glimmer of light to be seen from the windows of the house.  John breathed a sigh of relief and hoped that this was a good omen.  
  
The gate into the yard opened quietly and Sherlock admitted in a low voice to having had one of the Irregulars grease the hinge.  They stole up onto the tiled verandah, lined by several shuttered windows and a French door, and  John gave Sherlock an inquiring look.   
  
"This is the entrance to the study," Sherlock murmured.  "It is always locked and bolted, so we will have to go around to the greenhouse door."  
  
Impulsively, John reached out to turn the handle and, to his surprise, it opened.  He exchanged another look with Sherlock.  "It's unlocked," he said quietly.  "Is it a trap?  Do you think he learned of our plan and is lying in wait?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "I don't see how that is possible - we didn't know for certain ourselves until this afternoon."  
  
Cautiously, John opened the door and peered inside.  It was outfitted as a study, with heavy drapes over the windows to his left and right.  The fire had been banked and the room was empty.  Quietly, they stepped inside and removed their masks, and John took more of a look around.  A large desk held pride of place in the room, and the wall across from John was lined with bookcases that contained what appeared to be valuable books.  The wall opposite the fireplace had a drape over it and it was there that Sherlock moved, pushing aside the curtains to reveal a tall, green safe.  
  
"It is a model that I am familiar with," he told John.  "I don't like that the door was unlocked but we have no time to lose.  Stand guard on both doors; should anyone come to the verandah, bolt it and we will go out the other doorway into the greenhouse.  If you hear anyone approaching the interior door, give warning and we will go out the verandah."  
  
John nodded, aware that his initial fear had turned into a keen zest for the adventure they were undertaking.  As he'd found in situations like this in the past, his senses seemed heightened by the danger and he was keenly aware of every sound.  Sherlock unrolled the instruments that he'd brought with him and, aided by John's stethoscope, soon had the door of the safe open.  John glanced over and saw that the safe was full of paper packets, each tied and sealed.  As Sherlock peered at each packet he pulled out, John thought that they were probably inscribed with the pertinent names on the outside.  Looking at the stacks inside, he wondered just how many lives Magnussen held within his power.  
  
A noise somewhere deep within the house caught his attention, the sound of a door closing and footsteps on a staircase above them.  It could have been the manservant but John had the sudden premonition that it was Magnussen himself.  The footsteps were descending, and John snapped his fingers to catch Sherlock's attention.  With quick comprehension, Sherlock placed the packets back into the safe, pushed it almost closed, snatched up the roll of tools, and hurried towards the door to the verandah.  But John had also caught the sound of a footstep on the path outside and he caught Sherlock's arm, pulling him behind the heavy drapes before the windows.  He didn't think that they could be seen as the shutters had been pulled fast over the windows but chose a hiding spot well away from the door and any possible light.  
  
They had just settled into place when the study door opened and the unmistakable tread of Magnussen was heard.  There was the scratch of a match and then a faint light as Magnussen lit the lamp on his desk.  The desk chair creaked as he settled behind it, then there was the strong odour of tobacco as he lit a cigar.  John exchanged a look with Sherlock, wondering how long they would have to remain hidden, but a moment later there was a soft tap at the French door.  
  
Someone entered and John could feel although not hear as Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.  Had he recognized something about that footstep?  It had sounded like a woman's step, or a small man, and John felt the urge to part the curtains, just a sliver, so that he could see what was taking place, but Sherlock's hand slid into his.  John glanced sideways at him and saw the infinitesimal shake of his head so he stayed his hand and listened intently instead.  
  
The visitor had approached the desk by this time and refused to take a seat.  That it _was_ a woman was clear from the higher timbre of her voice, although she spoke so softly - no doubt due to the dreadful nature of the business she was there about - that John could not make out the few words she uttered.   
  
Magnussen had no such compunction for he spoke in normal tones as he said, "Well?  Your employer has received my terms and he knows what I have to offer.  I assume that he would not have sent you if he did not intend to accede to my demands."  
  
"He has asked me to ascertain that the document you hold is the one he seeks," she replied, her voice still low, barely audible to John.  
  
"A cautious man - I admire that.  As I admire his sheer _effrontery_ in this business.  Few men would undertake such a foolhardy venture, particularly when failure means a noose, or worse.  Impersonating the nobility - do they still draw and quarter one for that?  Although I expect that death means little to Lord Moriarty."  There was that slight, dry chuckle that John despised, but the mention of Moriarty's name riveted his attention.  "One hears things, in my particular line of business.  Both the legal and the...well...more _entrepreneurial_ sort of trade he's in."  
  
"The document," she said, her voice hard and a little louder with the forcefulness of it.  John frowned; there was something oddly familiar about it.  
  
"Certainly."    
  
For a moment John feared that Magnussen would go to the safe and discover that it was unlocked, that they would be caught.  But instead he heard the sound of a drawer being unlocked and a document withdrawn.  There was a rustle as the woman evidently perused the contents.  
  
"Your employer must trust you greatly to allow you to see that," Magnussen said.  "Now.  I have shown you my evidence, so it is your turn to pay me the first instalment, as Lord Moriarty agreed."  
  
"Is this all that you have?"  
  
"It is enough," Magnussen replied.  "That document stands between Moriarty and his goal."  
  
"And you will retain this?" she asked, her voice so low that John could barely hear the words.  
  
"For now, as I have said - insurance against future payments."    
  
"Is that wise?  Lord Moriarty is a dangerous man to cross."  
  
"As am I."  She apparently hesitated because Magnussen said, his voice sharp, "Come now; it is quite a fair arrangement.  Lord Moriarty stands to come into both a fortune and a title if his plans succeed - unless I lay this document before the proper authorities, or sell it to Lord Saughton instead.  My price is not so great compared to what he has to lose."  
  
There was a sound of something being pulled from a pocket and John thought that she'd agreed to the terms and was pulling out the money demanded.  However Magnussen's sharp intake of breath told him that was not the case.    
  
"Do you think to rob me?" he said sharply.  "I have only to raise my voice and my manservant will be here in minutes.  Even if you flee with the document, I know its content and shall go straight to the Runners with what I know."  
  
"Not if you are dead."    
  
There was a sudden loud _bang!_ and John realized with shock that it had been a gun she'd pulled out and that she'd shot Magnussen with it.  A second shot followed but no more, for Sherlock burst out from behind the curtains.  John followed him but could take no more than a few steps before he stopped dead in shock.  
  
There, facing them across Magnussen's slumped body, was Mary Morstan.  She had a small revolver in her hand - and it was aimed directly at Sherlock's heart. 


	54. Part IV: Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations, Conclusions, and Confessions.
> 
> Following the events at Appledore, so many things have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the side stories, there are also updates to:  
> [A Civil Agreement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2775011/chapters/14582860) and [Three Continents Watson](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2330933/chapters/14583169) starting where this chapter ends.

  
"Lord Sherlock," Mary said, eyes fixed on Sherlock, the gun still aimed at him.  "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Looking for a document - the one you're holding, I imagine."  Sherlock held out his hand for it.  "I'll take that."  
  
Her eyes narrowed.  "And you think that I'll just hand it over to you?"  
  
"Yes.  I think that you're still trying to help John, but you've gotten into something over your head."  He took a step closer, his hand still outstretched.  "Let me help."  
  
John froze in shock, watching as Sherlock and Mary stared at each other across the expanse of Magnussen's desk.  The murdered man lay slumped over the top and the revolver gleamed in Mary's hand as she lifted it slightly, her hand steady as she aimed at Sherlock.  It was like a nightmare from which he couldn't awake.  
  
"I could kill you," Mary said lowly.  "If you take another step, I could shoot you."  
  
"But you won't.  Mary, John is here.  You won't hurt John like that."  
  
Mary drew in a sharp breath and turned her head, seeing John for the first time.   "John."  
  
"Mary."  He stepped forward cautiously, keeping his eyes on her until he was close enough to take the revolver out of her hand, putting it in his pocket.  Then he returned to Magnussen, checking for a pulse, but there was none.    
  
"Good, we all know each other," Sherlock said shortly.  "And somewhere in the house is his manservant.  He'll have heard the gunshots and will come to investigate.  Miss Morstan, lock the door.  John, your assistance, please."  
  
John turned, puzzled, and watched Sherlock as he turned back to the safe.  He gathered up handfuls of the blackmail packets and strode across the room to throw them into the fireplace where they immediately caught fire.  John's heart swelled with pride, that even in this perilous moment Sherlock was refusing to let Magnussen's other victims suffer any longer.  He hurried to the safe, grabbed an armful of the documents, and a moment later they had joined the others in the fire.    
  
As he turned to fetch another batch he caught sight of Mary heading for the door to the verandah.  He moved quickly to catch her by the wrist saying, "Not so quickly, if you please.  We need to talk."  There was the sound of hurried footsteps outside the study door and he added, "Back at Baker Street."  
  
Sherlock had finished emptying the safe and went to look out onto the verandah.  "It's clear, but not for long," he said.  "He will summon the Watch when he finds Magnussen."  
  
As he spoke they heard someone hammering on the study door and shouting.  They dashed across the grounds, gaining the gate even as John saw that the manservant had come around the side of the house.  He shouted after them, calling for the Watch, but they were already through and running down the alleyway.  By the time John reached the street, Sherlock had hailed a cab and was handing Mary up into it.  John jumped in and pulled the door shut, shouting for the cabbie to take them to St. John's Woods.  There they changed cabs, alighting on the far side of Baker Street where Sherlock passed a note to one of the street urchins huddled on a doorstep there.  They took the delivery alley to the back of the house, still dark and quiet, and let themselves in.  John secured the back door and lit the candle branch they'd left by the back door and led the way up to their sitting room.  
  
Through it all, Mary was silent, her lips set and her face pinched.  John poured her a glass of Madeira as Sherlock coaxed the fireplace to life before tossing his cloak onto the couch.  John poured another Madeira for Sherlock and two fingers of scotch for himself before joining them in the sitting room.  
  
"Would someone mind explaining to me just what the hell happened?" John asked, his voice tight and angry now that the need to get somewhere safe was past.  
  
"Obvious," Sherlock said, sinking gracefully into his regular chair, his eyes on Mary the entire time.  "Miss Morstan was sent to retrieve a document that was important to her employer, and to clean up the mess.  It remains to be seen whether we are a part of that mess."  
  
John turned on Mary who had remained standing by the fireplace, her untouched glass in her hand.  "You are working for Moriarty?  And you just killed a man!  Have you lost your bloody mind?"  
  
Mary flinched slightly at the profanity.  
  
"John, I hardly think that losing your temper will improve matters," Sherlock said with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.   
  
John turned to him and glared.  "Sarcasm won't help either."  He turned back to Mary.  "Moriarty.  Seriously?"  
  
Mary looked down at her hands, twisted together as she moved to sit down on the sofa.  "He gave me an option when I thought I had none.  That was before I realized that there was something...very wrong...with him."  
  
"Yes - he's trying to take my home away from me, and to humiliate my family!"  
  
"No - well, yes, but it is more than that.  Something twisted."    
  
"Insanity is said to run through the Moriarty bloodline," Sherlock said quietly, and Mary turned to look at him.    
  
"I believe it," she said solemnly.  "But I didn't see that, not at first.  I didn't realize he was a monster."  
  
"You just killed Magnussen," John pointed out.  "Does that make you any better?"  
  
"People like Magnussen _should_ be killed," Mary returned.  "All those people whose lives he's ruined?  Those who wait in dread for his knock on their door?  Charles Augustus Magnussen had not a drop of mercy in his soul.  You know that - otherwise why were you there?"  
  
"For the document that you took from him," Sherlock replied.  "Magnussen was trying to buy John with it."  He held out his hand.  "I believe we'd like a look at it."  
  
Mary tilted her chin.  "Lord Moriarty will kill - _has_ killed - for that document.  If he learns that you've seen the contents, your lives will be worth nothing."  Her glance flicked over to John, then back to Sherlock.  "Are you willing to risk that?"  
  
"Yes,"  Sherlock replied and John nodded his agreement.  
  
Mary drew the folded document from out of her sleeve and handed it to Sherlock.  He unfolded it and scanned down the page quickly, then frowned and read it again, slower.  When he'd finished, he folded it again and tapped it against his lips.  
  
"This - changes quite a number of things," Sherlock said.  He held out the document out to John.  
  
As he took the document, John could see that it was a page torn out of a bible, the sort of page where a family would record births, marriages, and deaths.  He could feel his pulse increase at that realization and his eyes scanned down the page.  The writing was strong, a man's hand, recording names and dates.  Several were familiar from their investigation - Finnafair and Sean and Saraid - and some less familiar - Liam and Sionaid.  Underneath the dates were their Presentations - Alpha and Omega, and then the three Betas.  And then under Sionaid was written the name "Seamus, f. Watson, 1797".  

 

  
  
John read that line and frowned, then read it again.  "I don't understand."  
  
"Your brother apparently had a Type," Sherlock said, drily.  "It appears that he seduced and got sons on both the Murphy sisters, ten years apart.  According to our notes, James returned to Ireland in 1805, by which time Sionaid had died, and I imagine that Saraid was only too willing to take her place in his heart and bed.  Whether James knew that Seamus was her son or her sister's we'll never know, unless Sarah shares that information."  
  
"So it's possible that his marriage to Sarah was legal, under Scottish law," John said slowly.  "But no marriage could _ever_ be claimed between the older sister and James.  So Moriarty is illegitimate."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "And that's what Magnussen was blackmailing him over.  Moriarty must have convinced Davenport to replace the original birth certificate with Sionaid as his mother with a new one, listing Saraid.  And then of course he had to 'clean up the mess'.  Anyone who knew the truth was disposed of.  The priest and his church.  The records office and the deacon who kept the records.  His grandfather and uncle.  Davenport.  His aunt, Jennifer."  
  
"The landlady stole the Bible from her room when she found the body," Mary said, speaking up for the first time.  "Moriarty has been looking for it ever since.  Magnussen must have bought it from her, or from one of his agents."  
  
"And Magnussen thought to be able to control Moriarty - why?  He has no voice in Parliament.  He is the darling of the Ton now, but that won't last."  
  
Mary smiled faintly.  "Lord Moriarty is more than that.  He pervades London's underworld, and yet no one who is not of that world has ever heard of him.  He is brilliant - nearly as brilliant as Sherlock - but there is a criminal strain that runs with the insanity in his blood."  
  
"He was behind Hope."

"And so much more than that.  There are many people who have turned to him for help, and not always legal."  Mary drew in a deep breath.  "Even me.  He said that he could help me with a problem, and he was so charming and sympathetic..."  She bit her lip, turning her face away.  
  
"The problem being my marriage to Sherlock?" John asked, his voice hard.  
  
"He said that if you were freed from your obligation to the estate that there would be no more need for your sham of a marriage," Mary replied, turning back to face John, her voice sharp.  "He told me what your brother had done to his mother, _he_ understood how betrayed I felt."  
  
"Mary, I am sorry that you were hurt, but how could you think that ruining me and my family would bring me back to you?"  
  
She turned her head, giving Sherlock a hard look.  "I thought that his brother would have the marriage annulled if you no longer had a title and an estate.  That's _all_ they wanted, you know.  That's all you are to the Holmes brothers - a name and a coronet, a social boost up from the middle-class."  
  
"Mary - "  
  
"No, John!  You loved _me_!  If you didn't have this burden, you would have married me and we could have lived the life we had planned." Impulsively, she reached her hand out to John.  "We still can.  Come with me, John."  
  
John gave her a startled look, then glanced at Sherlock who appeared to be studying his manicure as he sat in his chair.  
  
"You've done your duty," Mary said.  "No one could expect more of you.  You can grant Sherlock a divorce - he could even marry again.  You have an heiress and Sherlock's brother can be trusted to oversee her interests.  If you step aside in her favour, Lord Moriarty would have no further reason to force his claim - you _know_ he is doing this simply to revenge himself upon your family."  
  
"Mary - " he began, shaking his head.  
  
"This was never meant to be your responsibility," she said coaxingly.  "Remember what we dreamed about?  We can run away to the Continent.  We can be married.  You can obtain a place as surgeon in one of the Indian regiments - they won't care about your divorce.  You can use your medical skills again instead of just chasing after ruffians and murderers.  With your skill, you could one day rise to Chief Surgeon - "  
  
"No," he said firmly, stopping her short.  Mary gave him a hurt look and he sighed.  "Mary, those were the dreams of a different man.  I have a life and responsibilities - and I actually _like_ what I'm doing.  I can't just abandon the estate and the people depending on me.  I have a daughter and I love her - how could I go away and never see her again?  And most of all there's my husband."  
  
"An arranged marriage," she scoffed.  
  
John nodded.  "At the first, yes."    
  
He turned towards his husband who was still looking down at his hands as if bored with the whole matter, although John could see the mask of indifference for what it was.   "Sherlock has become _much_ more than that to me.  I love him," he said, and saw Sherlock's head snap up, his eyes widen as they met John's.  "He's the best man I've ever known, and the wisest, and the most human - and he's my heart's choice."  
  
Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.  "John?" he said, uncertainly, rising from his chair.  
  
John could feel the smile on his face widening as he said, fondly, "Yeah.  You're a right bastard at times, but I wouldn't have you any other way.  I wouldn't have anyone _other_ than you.  I love _you_."  
  
Sherlock strode across the room and John opened his arms to him, embracing his husband with a fierceness that surprised even himself while lifting his face to meet Sherlock's kiss.  Time seemed to stand still, which was fine with John as he was exactly where he wanted to spend eternity.  If he never did anything other than kiss Sherlock for the rest of his life, that suited him just fine.  
  
And when they did part for a moment to draw breath, John looked around the room and saw that it was empty.  But Sherlock was there, and that's all that mattered.  He drew him back into his arms, intent on proving to his husband just how passionately he loved him, and how happy he was that they had found each other.  
  
It wasn't until the next day that he realized that Mary had taken the document with her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this will be all for this story for about 2 weeks, as I need to try to catch up Sherlock's side of the story before the Moriarty side intensifies. (What? You certainly didn't think that this was the end, did you? There will be a Tea Party in the next chapter!)
> 
> Also, I will be at 221B-Con next weekend - say hello if you are there, too! I will be on the Canon 101, Only in Fandom, and Fan Vids panels, and possibly Beyond Wikipedia as a guest-panelist.


	55. Part IV: Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the case of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events Sherlock refers to (scattered clothing) are detailed in [Chapter 8 ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2330933/chapters/14583169) of "Three Continent's Watson".
> 
> Mycroft refers to Mary's part of the story in [Chapter 3 ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2775011/chapters/14582860) of "A Civil Agreement".

John woke to the sounds of the household stirring around him, habits from his army days alerting him to the presence of others, no matter how quiet.  Sherlock was still sound asleep, curled up on his side in front of John, and John couldn't resist pressing his lips against his husband's back.  Sherlock murmured something unintelligible and wriggled, rolling onto his other side, facing John.  
  
"Morning, love," John said softly, fondly. 

Sherlock turned his face up for a kiss, his eyes still closed, and John chuckled as he obliged.  With a contented sigh, Sherlock pressed his face back into John's shoulder, shifting a little closer to John's warmth.    
  
There was a tap on the door and John bid Moss, his valet, to enter and idly watched as the man opened the curtains and checked that the scullery maid had properly tended the fire.  
  
"The day is quite fine, my lords.  Shall I lay out your morning suits, or perhaps your riding clothes?"    
  
"Mmm, I don't know," John replied, feeling unusually languid this morning.  "Sherlock?  Any plans for the day?"  
  
"None that I care about," Sherlock replied, not shifting from where he was lying.  John wasn't even certain that he'd opened his eyes yet.    
  
"Let's be indulgent and lazy, shall we?" John said.  "Moss, we'll have breakfast in bed this morning, and then a bath, I believe.  Casual clothing for the morning, although we may take a stroll later this afternoon."  
  
"Very good, my lord," Moss replied, removing himself from the room.    
  
Sherlock leaned up on one elbow to kiss John, then grabbed his dressing gown from the end of the bed and belted it on.  "Thank God for indoor privies," he muttered, shoving his feet into his slippers.  
  
"You mean, thank _Mycroft_ ," John teased, sitting up in bed and watching his husband dress.  
  
Sherlock aimed a glare in his direction as he slipped out of the room to make his way to the water closet on the floor below.  John took a moment to pull on his own dressing gown and arrange the pillows behind him.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd had breakfast in bed - probably not since he'd been invalided home following the injury to his shoulder.  It seemed wickedly indulgent, and he decided that - at least for one day - he was going to indulge.  
  
Sherlock slipped back into bed and leaned in for another kiss just as Moss returned with their coffee, blushing delightfully at being caught.  John, more inured to the presence of servants, held Sherlock in place for another moment, returning his kiss before letting him go.    
  
Johnson was the next to enter, bearing a heavy tray that appeared to have enough food for a half-dozen.  Moss deftly portioned out two plates, then left them to their breakfast while he prepared the bathing chamber.  
  
"I don't know why you don't like him," John said, tucking into his eggs and sausage with gusto.  "He's very good at his work."  
  
"Dull," Sherlock replied, taking a large bite out of one of the last of the hot cross buns.  
  
"Just because he doesn't know how to pick pockets or burgle a house, like Wiggins, that doesn't make him _dull_."  
  
Sherlock scowled and John grinned at him, then leaned over to lick a bit of the pastry off of Sherlock's lips.  The expression on his husband's face was priceless.    
  
They spent the rest of the day together, scarcely more than a touch apart.  Instead of retreating to his lab and experiments, Sherlock sat with John as he fleshed out the stories of their recent cases, although claiming it was to prevent John from unnecessarily romanticising the stories.  The maids came in and out of the rooms, to mend the fire and bring the luncheon tray, shooting little side looks at them as they did that mystified John.  He couldn't summon enough interest to wonder about it, though, not when Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa with him, his head in John's lap, while he read aloud from the latest serial in the Strand.  
  
Sherlock paused in his reading, frowning at the turn of one of the phrases.  "This is _appalling_ , John!  Not nearly as well-written as yours - even if they are devoid of all useful facts."    
  
"Thanks," John said drily.  "Assuming there was a compliment in there, somewhere."  
  
"Of course there was."  He tilted his head so that he could study John's face.  "Ah.  You are concerned about the staff."  
  
"Not really, just a little puzzled.  They all act as if they know some secret and it amuses them greatly.  Even Moss,and _nothing_ seems to amuse him."  
  
"I expect that finding our discarded clothing all over this room has something to do with it," Sherlock said drolly.  At John's questioning look, he said, amused, "You really are too accustomed to servants, John.  Did you think our clothing just magically vanished, to reappear in our closets?"  
  
"I'll have you know that I spent years in the army without a batman or any other servant, tending to my own clothing!" John said indignantly.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Their amusement is because they also think I was in Heat last night, and that I might now be pregnant."  
  
John frowned.  "You aren't - weren't - "  
  
"No."  He rolled over to look up at John.  "Too early yet, with Helen just weaned.  And you didn't seem to care for the idea."  
  
"I wouldn't mind, when you are ready,"  John said.  "Although - not too soon, yeah?  Last night was rather nice."  
  
Sherlock smirked.  "Only 'rather nice'?  I think we can improve on that, don't you?"  
  
John laughed and leaned down to kiss him.  Sherlock wound his arms around John's neck to hold him in place and things were just begin to heat up when they heard the clearing of a throat from the doorway.

Sherlock released John and sighed.  "Mycroft, you are annoying and inconvenient.  Go away."  He sat up and ran his hand through his dishevelled curls, although John couldn't see that it was an improvement.  
  
"I thought that perhaps you would be pleased to know that one of your problems has been attended to," Mycroft said, crossing to sit in John's usual chair.  "Miss Morstan has left England, for good."  
  
John sighed and rose from the sofa, ringing for their tea.  He couldn't help feeling relieved that Mary was gone from their lives, for although he wished that she hadn't been so hurt by his choice, the memory of her gun pointed at Sherlock's heart overrode all of that.  If she had shot Sherlock, he would never have been able to forgive her.  "The only problem with that is that she took a very important document with her," he told Mycroft.  
  
"The page from the Murphy family bible?" Mycroft inquired.  "Not to worry; I have it, and I think you should leave it in my hands.  If _you_ were to produce it, some might say that you had ulterior motives."  
  
"And just what do _you_ intend to do with it?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"When the moment is right, it will be produced and Lord Moriarty will be discredited."  
  
"Sooner rather than later, I hope," John said.  "You'll stay for tea, won't you, Mycroft?  Helen will be along shortly."  
  
As always, the promise of seeing his niece swayed Mycroft.  Sherlock scowled but the sight of his brother fondly bouncing Helen in his knee seemed to soften him.  (Or maybe it was the fact that Helen's fingers were covered with jelly that was transferred to Mycroft's waistcoat.)  
  
Once the tea tray was removed and Helen returned to the care of her nanny, Mycroft took his leave of them, promising to keep them appraised of his plans.  John saw him to the door and then returned to his husband, now draped across his chair like a lifeless body.  
  
"Tired?" John asked, amused by the display.  
  
"Attempting to recover my will to live after an hour spent in my brother's presence," was Sherlock's reply,  
  
"Pity.  I was going to suggest we take up where we left off before your brother appeared, but if you'd rather sulk..."  John sat down in his chair and picked up the newspaper he'd discarded earlier.  
  
Sherlock achieved a vertical position so quickly that John suspected levitation was involved, then grabbed John's hand to pull him out of his chair.  Sherlock kissed him, pausing only to ask, "John, are you particularly hungry this evening?"  
  
Although Sherlock sometimes (fondly) called his husband an idiot, John could grasp essential facts with ease and quickly assured Sherlock that he hadn't the slightest interest in his dinner.  
  
"Good," Sherlock replied, grasping his hand and turning toward the stairs.  "Then I believe we should retire early tonight."  
  
"We were up quite late last night," John agreed, attempting a yawn that wouldn't have convinced _Helen_ that he was sleepy as he followed his husband.  
  
And if the maids shared another amused smile, and if Cook studied the roast she'd prepared with a sigh before carving it up for meat pies, neither John nor Sherlock knew or cared.

* * *

 

The next day the household returned to what passed for normal in the Holmes-Watson house.  Sherlock was up and at work on an experiment before John even stirred.  There were letters in the morning mail regarding the arrival of the Dalmahoy party and financial matters that John needed to handle.  And shortly before noon, Bradstreet of the Bow Street Runners was shown into the parlour.  He looked solemn as he shook hands with John.  
  
"I do apologize for intruding, but I wondered if I might have a few words with Lord Sherlock," he said to John.  "It's regarding a crime that occurred in the early hours of yesterday morning."  
  
Sherlock had heard the Runner's arrival and entered the sitting room at this point, the glasses he used to protect his eyes while experimenting in his hand.  "What crime is this?" he asked.  
  
"A murder that occurred in in Hampstead," Bradstreet replied.  "A most remarkable murder, no ordinary crime.  You will have perhaps heard of Mr. Charles Augustus Magnussen of Appledore Towers?"  
  
"One can hardly help but hear his name," Sherlock replied while John tried to conceal his start of alarm at the name.  "He owns several newspapers, doesn't he?"  
  
"Yes, although in Bow Street we know him for other reasons.  He's a bit of a villain.  A blackmailer, you see, not that anyone would come forward to accuse him.  We've had our eye on him, waiting for him to cross the line."  
  
"And did he?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Perhaps, but he has most assuredly paid a heavy price for it, for he is dead.  Shot twice.  His safe was opened and all of his papers burned, so there is no doubt that the crime was to prevent social exposure, but that's as much as we can determine.  We were hoping that you would come with us to Appledore Towers, Lord Sherlock.  If you could take a look around, perhaps you could put us on the right scent.  Not that my sympathy isn't entirely with whoever he'd got his hooks into, the poor bastards."  
  
"Then there was more than one?" John asked.  
  
"The manservant was roused by the shots and ran downstairs.  He saw three figures run out through the back gate to the alley but couldn't catch up to them.  Two men and a woman, he believes, although he couldn't be certain.  One was tall and dressed in trousers, and the other two were of the same height, one in skirts and the other in trousers."  
  
"So two men and a woman.  Or possibly three women, two Alphas and one a Beta or Omega," John said.  
  
"Surely not an Omega!" Bradstreet exclaimed.  "Their constitutions are not designed for such a violent deed."  
  
"Anyone can commit murder, if they are driven to it," Sherlock pointed out.  "I am an Omega and yes, from what I have heard of this Magnussen, I could be tempted to murder if he had threatened my family.  My sympathies are entirely with his victims in this case so no, I will not look into the matter for you."  
  
Bradstreet looked disappointed but not at all surprised, and he went away without trying to persuade Sherlock otherwise.  Once he had left, Sherlock turned to John with a frown.  
  
"I don't like the involvement of the Runners in this matter, John.  They are likely to bumble into some fragment of the truth, or put their finger on an innocent victim of that man's blackmail."  
  
"Surely not, Sherlock.  The papers were all destroyed.  Mary was the agent, not a victim, so there would be nothing to point to her, and we barely came into the matter at all."  
  
"You kept the gun that you took from Mary?"  
  
John frowned, trying to remember.  "It would be in the pocket of my overcoat, unless she took it, along with that page."  
  
Sherlock went down to the coat rack and returned a few minutes later bearing the small pistol that Mary had used.  "Better lock this away in your desk, John.  I will speak with Mycroft about disposing of it in a way that can't be traced back to Miss Morstan."  
  
John took the revolver and secured it in the bottom drawer of his desk.  "It's a pity that we can't link it to Lord Moriarty without involving her in the matter.  I have no doubt that he would throw her to the wolves to save himself."  
  
Sherlock looked thoughtful at that, but then there was a small explosion from his workroom that drew his attention away and the matter was forgotten.


	56. Part V: Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 1823 brings more than showers for John. It is the start of the final problem, an abominable set of plots, and a web of lies and intrigue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ariane DeVere for her [transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/sherlock%20episode%20transcript).

### Part V: The Abominable Problem  
Chapter One

As April unfolded, members of the _Ton_ returned to London for the Season, Harry and her family among them.  John was happy to see them again, pleased to see that Janet's children were flourishing under the care of their aunts.  Clara was clearly in her element with a house full of children, and with this success behind her, set her energy to the task of securing a brilliant match for Georgia.  The only one who didn't seem pleased by that idea was Georgia herself.  John felt for her but was equally certain that Georgia was stubborn enough to resist a marriage that she didn't want, and that Mycroft would keep an eye out for his protege.  
  
He saw very little of his brother-in-law during the week following Magnussen's death, nor any sign that he was pursuing Moriarty in any way.  So it was an unpleasant shock when the man himself turned up in Baker Street one afternoon.  
  
John had been polishing the most recent story for publication when Betty appeared in the doorway of his office off of the family parlour.    
  
"If you please, m'lord," she said.  "Gentleman caller to see you."  
  
"Client or visitor, Betty?" he asked, blotting the page.  
  
"He came to the regular door, m'lord.  Wouldn't give his name, said he was family. I put him in the parlour downstairs."  
  
John sighed.  Mycroft, no doubt, and John would have something to say to him.  "Right.  Have the tea tray brought in - I'll go down."  
  
"Oh, don't go to any trouble on my account, Uncle John."  
  
John looked up sharply to see Lord Moriarty lounging in the doorway behind Betty.  His jaw clenched at the sight of his nephew and the sheer effrontery of the man, coming upstairs without being invited.  Betty looked at him in shock, then back at John.  
  
"My lord!  I bade him wait in the parlour!"  
  
"It's all right, Betty.  Lord Moriarty is family, as he said.  Please bring up the tea tray."  
  
Betty slipped past Moriarty as he strolled in through the doorway, looking around with interest.    
  
"Most people would wait in the parlour," John said coolly.  "But then, you're not most people, are you?"  
  
Moriarty smirked at him.  "So kind of you to say so, Uncle."  He strolled into the sitting room and sat down in Sherlock's chair, and  John had to take in a deep breath to keep from crossing the room and pulling Moriarty out of it.  "I thought that it was time for us to have a proper chat."  
  
"I wasn't aware that we had anything to talk about," John retorted as he took his usual seat.  He would have preferred to have Johnson eject the man from the house, but caution stayed his hand.   
  
"Family should keep in touch - don't you think?"  Moriarty picked up an apple from the bowl on the coffee table, then the little knife on the plate beside it, and began cutting into the apple.  "So important to clear the air, make certain everyone is on the same page, as it were."  
  
John was immediately on the alert.  He was horribly aware that he was a bad liar but also sensed the danger should Moriarty learn that they were aware of his lies.  "Of course, what was I thinking?" he replied, mockingly.  "How is your husband, Lord Blessington?  In good health, I hope?  And your mother - settling into the Dower House, I trust?  You will be pleased to know that your brother, Hamish, has sent a good report on the spring planting at the Home Farm."  
  
He felt Moriarty's sharp eyes on his face but did his best to maintain a bland look.  With any luck, Moriarty would think him just dull and stupid.  "Sebastian enjoys his customary health although he is a trifle bored with Town life - so dull for a soldier.  But of course you understand that.  Mother is having the house walls repapered - really, that _bitch_ my father took up with has appalling taste.  I heard that she was committed - dare I hope that rumour, for once, is true?"  
  
"Janet had a bad turn but is recovered and has retired to a house in the country," John returned shortly.  
  
"And all the neighbours?  The Morstans appear to have left the country, unexpectedly."  
  
John frowned at that.  Mycroft had mentioned that Mary had gone abroad but had said nothing about her mother or grandfather.  "I hadn't heard," he said shortly.  "We haven't been in contact in recent months."  
  
"No, I don't suppose you have," Moriarty said after a moment.  "So _awkward_ when a former lover refuses to take a hint and move on, isn't it?  You being married and all, you'd think she'd stop mooning.  So _middle class_ of her."  
  
"I don't want to talk about Miss Morstan," John said shortly.    
  
The tea tray arrived and he occupied himself with pouring out cups for them.  Moriarty ignored the cup that John set beside him, his attention on the apple that he was carving.   
  
"Shall we talk about your delightful husband instead?"  he asked.  "Still interfering where he isn't wanted?"  
  
"Still investigating," John said, taking a sip of his tea in an attempt to calm his emotions.  He couldn't let Moriarty upset him so easily.  "He's at Court today, as a matter of fact."  
  
"So nice that you allow him his _hobbies_ ," Moriarty said insincerely.  He set down the apple with the paring knife stabbed into it and picked up his tea cup.  "So, have you worked out how I'm going to do it yet?"  His eyes gleamed over the rim of the cup, cold and hard, reminding John of that day outside the Consistory Court.  
  
"What...burn me?" John returned, mockingly.  
  
"Have you worked out our _little problem_?"  John said nothing and Moriarty sighed.  "How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"  
  
John gave him another bland, insincere smile.  "I don't know."  
  
Moriarty chuckled lightly.  "Oh, that’s clever; that’s _very_ clever; awfully clever."  
  
"Why are you doing all of this?" John asked, suddenly weary with the whole game.  "You don't need the title - you already have one.  There isn't any money in the estate yet, and it will be years before there is a return on the improvements.  The rest of the money is Sherlock's dowry and reverts to him on my death.  What is it all _for_?"  
  
Moriarty set down his cup and sat forward, speaking softly.  "I want to solve a problem – _our_ problem; the final problem." 

He shook his head slowly, deliberately.  "It’s going to start very soon: the fall."  He paused and whistled, a slowly descending note while lowering his gaze toward the floor.  "But don’t be scared, Uncle John. Falling’s just like flying, except there’s a more permanent destination."  
  
John grit his teeth, restraining himself from shaking the irritating man.  "I never liked riddles."  
  
Moriarty rose, settling his coat and meeting John's eyes with a glare.  " _Learn to_ ," he said softly.  "Because I owe you a fall, Uncle John.  I ... _owe_ ... you."  
  
He left the room and John heard the sound of footsteps going down the stairs followed by the sound of the front door closing.  But his attention was riveted on the apple left on the table.  An apple into which had been carved the letters "I O U".  
  
John was still staring at it, unease filling him, when Sherlock stormed up the stairs and into the sitting room a short while later.  There was a scowl on his face and he still wore his overcoat, indicating that he'd let himself into the house.  John turned his attention to his husband, frowning at the displeasure writ large over Sherlock's face.  
  
"What's wrong?  The trial - ?"  
  
Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal.  "What?  No - Dr. Roylett will be going to prison for a long time, if he doesn't succumb to his own poisonous concoction - which I suspect will be the case as I saw distinctive speckles on his neck.  Poetic justice, I believe you'd call it."  
  
"Then - "  
  
Sherlock's scowl deepened.  "I was accosted afterwards."  
  
Alarmed, John rose from his seat and crossed to his husband.  "Accosted?  Are you hurt?"  
  
Sherlock looked mollified at John's concern and allowed him to remove his coat, smirking as John let his Alpha senses scent his husband.  "No, she didn't dare lay hands on me."  
  
"She? _Who_?" Sudden worry that Mary might have returned to England - or had never left - and had tried to harm Sherlock filled him.  
  
"Kitty Riley.  She bribed one of the guards to gain access to the waiting room."  His scowl returned.  "She wants to do a feature article on me, an inspiration for downtrodden Omegas - and you will be startled to hear that _you_ are my chief oppressor."  
  
"Pay no attention to her," John said.  "She's a sensationalist and only wants a story."  
  
"Yes, and I believe that her livelihood is in doubt as no other paper would employ her following Magnussen's death.  Her style repels other people besides me.  It will take a spectacular story for her to make her name elsewhere." 

Sherlock's attention was caught by the sight of the apple sitting on the table.  He crossed to pick it up, then looked at the teacup beside it before turning back to John.  "You had a visitor, I see."  
  
John nodded.  "Moriarty."  
  
Sherlock looked back at the apple, frowning at the message carved there.  "Vowels.  I fail to understand the purpose - you no longer gamble and certainly wouldn't accept a promissory payment in such a bizarre form."  
  
"I expect he's referring to some other type of debt," John said with a sigh.  "The man is annoying in the extreme."  
  
"He's more than annoying, John.  He's _dangerous_ \- possibly the most dangerous person we've encountered."  Sherlock's expression was troubled.  "You will need to be cautious in any dealings with him."

* * *

However, trouble - when it came - was from an unlikely direction.    
  
Two days after Moriarty's unwelcome visit, a message summoning them to the Wapping Street Station arrived at Baker Street.  Cases from Lestrade had been thin on the ground lately, although private clients and the occasional look-in from Bow Street had tided Sherlock over.  Eager for an interesting new adventure, they'd arrived at the station at noon, only to be shown into an interview room occupied by Donovan and an unfamiliar man.  
  
"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded, glaring at Donovan.  
  
"Surveyor Lestrade has been removed from this case," the other man said.  "Personal conflict, him being related by marriage to the suspect.  I'm Sam Brown, Water Constable."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "Related to the suspect?  What has Mycroft done?"  
  
"Lord Saughton," Constable Brown said, turning to John.  "I am required to warn you that anything that you might say will be written down and may be used, should this matter come to trial."  
  
John stared at the constable, then looked over at Donovan.  "What matter?  What, exactly, are you accusing me of?"  
  
"Information has been laid indicating that you were involved in the cabbie murders two years ago."  
  
"Of _course_ I was involved," John replied.  "I helped catch the murderer.  It's in the records - and Donovan was there."  
  
"We never learned who employed Jefferson Hope," Donovan returned.  "He died, rather _conveniently_ , before he could be questioned.  After you shot him."  
  
"When he was trying to hang Sherlock!" John pointed out angrily.  
  
"A rich husband that you were forced to marry," Donovan said.  "If Lord Sherlock had died, you would have had the money _and_ been free to remarry."  
  
Appalled, John looked over at Sherlock.  Surely he didn't believe that - did he?  
  
Sherlock was scowling at Donovan.  "Don't be more of an idiot than you can help," he snapped.  "We hadn't yet married so if I had died, the only one to benefit would have been my brother."  Donovan and Brown exchanged a look at that, and he added, "And what _earthly_ reason can you invent for John to have wanted the other three killed?"  
  
"We've been informed that Mrs. Wilson was related to Lord Saughton's nephew - " Brown began.  
  
Sherlock interrupted.  "Which he didn't know at the time, and even if he had, murdering her was of _no benefit_ to John _whatsoever_!  In addition, he didn't arrive in London until _after_ the first two murders, so how do you propose that he arranged that?"  
  
Feebly, Brown said, "It is well known that 'Hope' is a common surname in the extended Watson family..."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "Yes, it is.  He has two 'Hope' uncles currently in the Admiralty, and another two are Generals - perhaps you would like to question them about their connection to these murders as well?  I believe you'll find at least one of them in the Prime Minister's cabinet."  
  
Brown blanched and sat down, wetting his lips nervously.  "Perhaps we were a bit hasty in considering this evidence..."  
  
"What evidence?" John asked.  "What, _precisely_ , do you have that implicates me in this matter?"  
  
Donovan silently opened a large envelope and poured its contents onto the table between them.  "These were found in Jefferson Hope's rooms."  
  
Sherlock poked through the bits and pieces which included a wedding ring, a miniature of a woman and two small boys, a small knife, and a few bits of paper.  One of them was a calling card bearing the name 'John Watson, Earl of Saughton' in elegant script.  
  
John frowned at the sight of it.  "That's your proof?  Hope might have obtained that from anywhere!"  
  
"There was also a statement from a witness - " Donovan began.  
  
"Who?" Sherlock demanded.  "Witness to _what_?"  
  
Brown drew himself up.  "The witness has requested to remain anonymous.  He said that those who fall afoul of the Watson family have met untimely ends."  
  
Sherlock snorted and paced angrily across the room, muttering about the idiocy of the water police while John raised his chin and met Brown's eyes firmly.  "Are you charging me, then?"  
  
"No," Brown admitted.  "We don't have enough at present to bring charges - unless you would like to confess?" he asked John, hopefully.  
  
"To what?" John asked, trying not to grind his teeth.  "To being related to people with the surname of Hope?  I believe you'll find that Jefferson Hope was not related to me in any way, so that charge is doubtful.  To being the mastermind of the murders?  For what purpose?  How do I benefit in any way?"  He turned his gaze on Donovan and raised an inquiring eyebrow.  
  
He could almost see her grind her teeth.  "You knew where to find Hope, when he'd taken Lord Sherlock," she snapped.  
  
"Just because John has more intelligence than the rest of you combined doesn't put him in league with a murderer!" Sherlock retorted.    
  
John rose from his seat.  "If you are not bringing charges, then I believe we will leave."  
  
"We won't stop looking," Donovan called out at John opened the door and allowed Sherlock to precede him into the hallway.  "If there is evidence to charge you, we will find it."  
  
John paused and looked back at her.  "What is it that you hold against me, Donovan?" he asked, curious.  "My title?  Wealth?  Marriage to a man you consider to be a freak?  Just _what_ are you prepared to do to prove that you're right and I'm wrong?  Is perverting justice included?"  Donovan was silent, glaring at him, as he closed the door behind himself.  
  
Sherlock hadn't stopped until he reached the outside pavement and John was slightly surprised to find that he had waited for him.  "It's Moriarty, of course," he said once John had reached him.  "Their 'anonymous source'."  
  
John nodded as he hailed a cab.  "But to what purpose?" he asked, puzzled.  "They have nothing but conjecture and a calling card that could have been picked out of the rubbish of any house I've visited, or even taken from my tailor or boot-maker.  Why have me brought in for questioning, thus tipping his hand?"  
  
They would have to wait another two days for the answer to that question.

* * *

Three days later, John was enjoying the company of both his husband and daughter at tea while outside an April shower drenched London and muted the sounds of traffic.  Sherlock had been absorbed in one of his projects since they'd returned from Wapping, forsaking meals and sleep, and John had been delighted when he'd appeared in the sitting room just as Annie delivered Helen.  Showing her own uncanny skills, Mrs. Hudson arrived at the same time bearing a full tea service, including Sherlock's favourites.  He tucked into them like a starving man, while John sat down on the floor to play with his daughter.  Helen was toddling proficiently now and determined to get into everything, and John thought fondly that she was more like Sherlock with every passing day.  
  
He was encouraging her to say "da-da" (for Helen had mastered "ma-ma" already, much to Sherlock's smug delight, even if she used the word indiscriminately) when Lestrade burst into the sitting room.  He was drenched from the rain and looked as if the Devil was on his heels as he stood, dripping, in the middle of the rug.  
  
"Greg, what's wrong?" John asked in alarm, scooping up Helen as he stood.  He handed her to Sherlock as he went to his brother-in-law.  "Let me have your coat, man - you'll catch your death."  
  
Lestrade suffered John to remove his outer coat before handing it to Johnson, and he appeared to be having difficulty catching his breath.  Sherlock looked him over swiftly before pushing him into John's chair and depositing Helen on his lap.    
  
"John, I believe that Lestrade wants a drink - and something stronger than tea."  
  
John looked over at Lestrade who was absently stroking Helen's curly head and shook his head.  "You've misdiagnosed, Sherlock."  He went to the sideboard and poured two fingers of scotch, then handed the glass to Lestrade.  "He doesn't _want_ a drink - he _needs_ one."    
  
A hint of a smile touched Sherlock's lips.  "My Boswell is learning.  They do grow up so fast," he added to Lestrade as he sat down across from him.  "Now, as to the matter at hand.  It's not a murder, or even serial murders - pity, that - for you are clearly distressed.  It's something of a more personal nature, related to family."  
  
"Has something happened to Mycroft?" John asked, alarmed.  
  
"Have you seen the evening paper?" Lestrade asked, his voice hoarse.  He drained his glass of scotch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before looking up at John.  "God, I swear I don't know how she learned... None of my people would have talked to the press about this - "  
  
Sherlock held up his hand to silence Lestrade and looked over at Johnson.  "The evening papers, Johnson, immediately."  
  
"Yes, m'lord," Johnson replied and withdrew from the room.    
  
John took the glass from Lestrade and refilled it, frowning.  "What _who_ learned?  You're not making any sense, man."  
  
Sherlock looked over at John.  "I believe it would be best if we wait to see what news has so distressed Lestrade before we delve deeper into the matter."  
  
Johnson returned a few minutes later, a troubled look on his face as he handed the newspapers to Sherlock.  "There are reporters at the front door, m'lord," he told John.  "They are desirous of a few words."  
  
"About what - " John began, then stopped at the look on Sherlock's face as he stared at the front page of the paper.  John went around to the back of his chair so that he could read over his husband's shoulder, and froze in shock at the headlines.  
  
**Lord Saughton Accused in Radcliffe Murders!**  
  
John snatched the paper out of Sherlock's hands, staring in disbelief at the headline, his mind unable to process the words.  Numbly, he scanned the article.  Everything that Constables Brown and Donovan had accused him of was here, only with a slant to the words to put them in the worst possible light.  Jefferson Hope's last name being among the Watson genealogy, the calling card in his possession, John finding him (and Sherlock), and the fact that he'd shot Hope were laid out with an ominous twist to them.  The relation of Mrs. Wilson to his nephew, Lord Moriarty, was particularly cast in a lurid light, as was the fact that he'd been in London by that time (although the fact that he hadn't been when Philimore and Davenport were killed was glossed over).  His questioning at Wapping Street Station was heavily underscored, and it was made to sound as if he'd narrowly escaped being clapped up in irons on the spot.    
  
John dropped the paper back into Sherlock's lap and turned to Lestrade, stunned and shocked.  Sherlock picked it back up, scanning the words quickly before tossing it aside with a scowl.  
  
"Miss Kitty Riley, of course," Sherlock said out loud.  He turned to the footman, awaiting orders, saying, "Johnson, take Miss Helen back to her nanny, please, and secure the house.  We have nothing to say to reporters, and any of the staff who speak to them will be sacked without references."  
  
"Very good, m'lord," Johnson said, carefully lifting Helen from Lestrade's lap before leaving the room.  
  
"How - " John began, then realized he was feeling light-headed.  He sank down onto the sofa, staring blankly at the other two men.  "How did she get this information?  How can she say such - such _lies_?"  
  
"I don't know, John," Lestrade said miserably.  "Both Donovan and Brown swear that they didn't speak to any reporter, although they may have discussed it in the canteen after speaking with you.  It's all utter nonsense - I will demand that they issue a retraction - "  
  
"Which will be printed beneath the obituaries on the back pages," Sherlock pointed out.  He frowned, deep in thought, his hands steepled under his chin.    
  
John knew it could be a while before he finished sorting through his thoughts, so he turned to Lestrade.  "Will you stay for dinner?  You won't want to go through those vultures outside, and it could be hours before they tire of waiting."  
  
"We will need Mycroft," Sherlock said, then returned to his thinking posture.    
  
John was surprised to hear Sherlock admitting to needing his brother for anything but had to admit that the elder Holmes' advice would be welcome.  He sent Billy with a message to Mycroft, inviting him to dinner and warning him of the reporters lurking outside.  
  
Mycroft's arrival coincided with that of the Watch, who sent the reporters off with a flea in their ear.  He'd brought their valet and a change of clothing for his husband, for which Lestrade was very grateful.  Once he was attired in dry clothes, they sat down to discuss the matter before dinner.  
  
"It's all a pack of lies, innuendos, and half-truths," John said, gesturing at the newspaper.  "Can't something be done about it?  Stop her from printing that rubbish?"  
  
"At present, no, although I understand that several bills are being presented during this session of Parliament to rein in the press," Mycroft replied.  "Although I doubt that anything will be enacted that quickly."  
  
"You could sue Miss Riley," Lestrade said.  "Take her to court.  But it might not do much good, not if you can't prove that her accusations are lies.  And it would take some time, during which she would be free to continue writing her stories - and probably worse."  
  
"Lovely," John said, rubbing his face wearily.    
  
"There might be another way," Sherlock said, stirring for the first time since Mycroft's arrival.  "If we can find proof that Moriarty is the true mastermind behind Hope's actions, we can refute her accusations and prove your innocence."  
  
Lestrade looked doubtful.  "We haven't had any success in finding Hope's patron and we've been looking for two years.  Even with that Bible entry, we only have motive, not proof.  If it had been found in his possession that might have been enough to charge him in her murder, but as it is..."  
  
"Then we will have to look harder," John said.  "Always providing that the constables don't show up on my doorstep to arrest me tomorrow, after that article."  
  
"I will do what I can to prevent that," Mycroft assured him, and with that he had to be content.  
  
Still, as they sat down to dinner, John couldn't help the sense of foreboding that settled over him. 


	57. Part V: Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Kitty Riley's news story, John's world begins to crumble. However, he finds support from some surprising areas. And amidst the scandal and gossip, a happy announcement is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, as it was originally to be part of the last chapter, but I decided to break it up. And I promise that the next chapter will be longer - and more intense. Last chance to take a deep breath before the plunge!

The news travelled fast, as gossip usually did.   By Monday, April 14th, when Parliament reopened and John took his seat, he could tell that the tongues were wagging by the side-looks cast his way.  Several members, including Lord Grey himself, made a point of coming over to speak to him, even to shake his hand and inquire after his family.  However, by the time they sat again on Thursday, eyes were averted from his direction and he had the distinct feeling that those seated next to him were shifting away.  As John removed his Parliament robes to hang in the Robing Room, Earl Spencer came up to him.  
  
"It's a bad business, Saughton," Spencer said to him, quietly.  "Stories like that shouldn't be allowed to be printed."  
  
John turned his head to look at the others in the room, men who he'd drunk with at White's, then turned back to Spencer.  "It's not true."  
  
"Of course it's not," Spencer said.  "Your husband would have hardly married a murderer, for all his love of crime."  He smiled at John.  "Do you know they've put his name up for the Royal Society?  There's some that are against admitting Omegas but we'll win them over in the end."  He winked at John.  "He's a rare one."  
  
Touched, John nodded, then looked around the room again.  "I should stay away, until the gossip does down."  
  
Soberly, Spencer said, "Don't let them drive you away, lad.  If they see you back away, they'll go for your throat.  Stand your ground, John.  And make that reporter eat her words."

A week later, John thought that much easier to say than to do.   He was given the cold shoulder in White's until he gave up and went home to Baker Street.  Letters to the Editors began to appear in all the papers, demanding a proper investigation into the Radcliffe Cabbie murders.  The knocker to both parts of 221 Baker Street fell silent and no mail from clients came their way.   And when he and Sherlock went to Almack's on Tuesday night, they were refused entry at the door.  It was difficult to see the blank look come over Sherlock's face, as if it didn't matter, when John knew he loved the dancing.  John didn't mind the gossip and scandal so much for him, but he hated to see the things that Sherlock loved denied to him.

The hardest personal blow was a few days later when he went to the offices of the Strand to deliver his latest manuscript.  The editor, usually so glad to see him, couldn't seem to meet his eyes as he invited him into his office.  And when John held out the bound sheaf of papers, the man sighed and sat down, waving John to the chair on the opposite side of the desk.  
  
"I'm sorry, Lord Saughton, but I've been told that we can't carry any more of your stories," he said frankly.  "Our investors, you see.  They've threatened to withdraw their funds if we do.  It's a bloody shame - begging your pardon!  Once this whole matter is settled and your name cleared - "  
  
John's jaw tightened.  "I've done nothing wrong.  I don't need to have my name cleared."  
  
"Of course not," the editor said hastily.  "It's that reporter, Riley.  She even tried to get access to your manuscripts - tried to bribe our clerk!"  
  
John frowned.  "Whatever for?"  
  
The man shrugged, clearly mystified himself.  "Looking for errors, she said, but I can't even imagine what kind."    
  
He walked John to the door, shaking his hand and earnestly entreating him to return with more stories once it had all blown over.  
  
John brooded all the way home, his temper rising as he dwelt on the matter.  He entered Baker Street and made his way to Sherlock's lab where he found his husband absorbed in one of his experiments.  Sherlock looked up, his eyes taking in details of John's appearance.  
  
"Don't say anything," John said sharply.  He knew that he was spoiling for a fight but it was hardly chivalrous to take it out on Sherlock who was, after all, not to blame for the situation.  
  
"They're all idiots," Sherlock said, turning his attention back to the slides he was examining while trying to write at the same time.  
  
"Here, let me do that," John said, holding out his hand for the quill and notebook.   
  
Sherlock didn't say a word, just began talking and John took over the note-keeping task with relief at having something to do.  It was soothing, listening to Sherlock's deductions about the river mud he was studying (his new self-appointed task being to thoroughly acquaint himself with all the variations in soil around the Thames), and trying to keep up with Sherlock's rapid-fire speech distracted him.  Better than that, however, was when Sherlock took out his violin later that night and played all of John's favourites, one after the other, as if in apology for the disdain of the world.  John found his fractious temper soothed, and he was very grateful to his husband for his care.

* * *

 

The next day they were to dine with Harry and her family, an engagement that John found himself dreading.  It wasn't that he didn't want to see Harry or Clara or Georgie, for he did want to see them.  However, he had no doubt that they were also feeling the repercussions of John's fall from grace and the blight on the Watson name.  He and Clara had been rubbing along tolerably well lately and he didn't want to lose that.  
  
To John's surprise, when they were announced by the butler, Clara immediately crossed the room to hug him.  John was startled into immovability, for Clara was never one for public demonstrations of affection to anyone but the children.  
  
"John, dear, how are you faring?" she asked in concern.  Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to Sherlock.  He took a step back, eyeing her warily as if she might try to embrace him next.  "And you, Sherlock?  It must be _unbearable_ for you both."  
  
"We're fine, Clara," John said hastily before Sherlock could lacerate her with his own reply.  "Thanks for your concern.  How about you and Harry?  Any ill-effects from the gossip?"  
  
"None that we care about," Harry replied, bringing each of them a glass of Madeira.  "We've received the cut direct but haven't been denied entry to the _Ton_ parties, but Clara's put a flea in the ear of anyone who dared say a word about you."  
  
Clara sniffed.  "The arrogance of Lady Mildred Bingham!  And to think that I once thought her son might be a good match for Georgia!"  
  
"Speaking of which, how go the matrimonial prospects?" John asked, sipping at his wine.  
  
Clara sighed and settled on the sofa.  "Not well, I must admit.  There were a number of good prospects - fine backgrounds, good breeding, personable - but none of them came up to scratch."  
  
John sighed and sat down beside her.  "Clara, I'm sorry - "  
  
"Bollacks!" Clara said roundly, and John was so startled by the profanity that he gaped at her.  "If they're too hen-hearted to ignore a little Tittle-Tattle, they'd never survive as part of the Watson family."  She took a sip of her wine, her eyes twinkling at John over the rim of her glass, and he was surprised into a laugh.  
  
"Not all of Georgie's suitors are yellow-livered, though," Harry said, sitting in a chair across from them.  "Miss Hooper has been to see me.  Twice."    
  
She gave her wife a significant look but before Clara could say anything in return, the butler appeared in the doorway.    
  
"Miss Hooper," he announced.  
  
Clara looked over at Harry who shrugged and said, "I might have invited Miss Hooper to join us."  
  
Clara threw up her hands in resignation.  "Have it your way," she said, although the dark look she gave Harry told John that Words would be exchanged in private later.  Clara set down her glass as she rose to her feet, crossing the room with every sign of affability to greet Molly.  While she was thus occupied, Georgia slipped into the room and sat down next to John, in her mother's seat.  
  
John raised an eyebrow at her.  "Would you have any idea why your father invited Molly Hooper to a family dinner tonight?"  Georgia gave him a dimpled smile and innocent eyes, and John shook his head.  "You have been spending too much time with Mycroft Holmes," he said darkly.  
  
Dinner was announced a short time later where conversation ranged over a variety of subjects, although tactfully no one mentioned the current scandal raging around John.  As John was seated across the table from Molly, he was able to focus most of his attention on her, which was unusual for most of the time they were in a room together it was dominated by Sherlock.  He was pleased to see that while she was respectful towards Georgia's parents, she was also firm in her opinions, exuding a quiet dignity that was quite becoming.  He could imagine that Molly would help to curb Georgia's more impulsive moods while Georgia would encourage Molly to come further out of her shell.  
  
It was clear that Clara had come to a similar conclusion, for when dinner was finished and they removed to the drawing room for coffee, she dismissed the servants and turned to Molly.  
  
"Miss Hooper, I believe that we all know the true purpose of this evening," she said once they'd each received their cups.    
  
Molly set down her cup and turned to face Clara directly.  "Lady Dalmahoy, I know that you haven't considered me a worthy suitor for Georgia, and it's true that I'm not from the same social level.  But I'm a Gentleman's daughter, and I can assure you that, no matter what happens, I will love and support her."  
  
"She will inherit the Dalmahoy estates in Scotland when I am gone," Harry reminded her.  "That will involve her spending some time up there each year.  Would you be willing to go with her?"  
  
Molly looked over at Georgia with a warm look in her eyes.  "I would follow Anthea - Georgia - anywhere," she said simply.  
  
Clara and Harry exchanged a look and John could see that Georgia was holding her breath.   
  
"While I was not initially in favour of the alliance, I admire your steadfastness of character and your tenacity of purpose.  So," Clara said, looking over at Georgia, "when shall the wedding be?"  
  
Georgia flew across the room to hug her mother while Molly beamed at everyone and shook hands with Harry.  
  
"We should host the engagement party," Sherlock announced as Harry called the footman to bring champagne to toast the couple, and John looked at him in astonishment.  "Don't look at me like that, John.  Molly is my protege so we are her surrogate parents, in a way.  It's only right that we should host the engagement dinner."  
  
"Perhaps, given the current situation..." John said hesitantly.  
  
"Oh, please, Uncle John!" Georgia said, turning to him.  "We don't want a big fuss or anything, just family."  
  
"A small engagement party would be best," Clara agreed.  "And the wedding at the end of July - that will allow enough time for wedding clothes and other arrangements."   
  
Unspoken was Clara's hope that the scandal would have been resolved by then, for while she was standing staunchly at his side, John knew that Clara longed for a big wedding at St. George's in Hanover Square.  
  
A date for the engagement party was fixed for the following week, on Saturday, May 3rd.  That decision made, the happy couple was toasted, then John and Sherlock took their leave, Molly consenting to let them escort her home.  And if she said little during the cab ride home, sitting in her corner of the carriage and smiling in dreamy thought, neither John or Sherlock blamed her.  On the contrary, for Sherlock's hand slid over to take John's and they rode all the way to Baker Street holding hands like a courting couple.


	58. Part V: Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected visitors and events drive John and Sherlock towards a crisis point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am grateful to Ariane DeVere for her [Sherlock transcripts.](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/sherlock%20episode%20transcript)
> 
> This ends on a cliff-hanger so if you are adverse to such things, you might want to wait for the next chapter. Which I do hope to have up tomorrow for canon reasons (which are in the footnotes. And no, it has nothing to do with Star Wars) - but definitely before the end of the week.

The extent of Sherlock's involvement in Georgia's engagement party, of course, was to turn the entire matter over to Mrs. Hudson.  Fortunately, that excellent woman had been waiting for an opportunity to turn out Baker Street at its best, and she threw herself into the planning of it with enthusiasm.  Dinner was planned and a quartet hired to play in the salon for the dancing that would follow.  A case of champagne was ordered from the wine merchant, and the best of the butcher's and fishmonger's wares called upon.  
  
John drew up the guest list which included Molly, Georgia and her parents, the Dowager Countess and her current _cicibo_ , Mycroft and Lestrade, and Mike Stamford and his new bride.   While some might decry the paucity of only a dozen people sitting down to dine, John thought the size of the party ideal, and Sherlock's only modification was to scratch out his brother's name.  (John added it back in, with a stern look at Sherlock.)  Invitations were sent out and accepted, and everything moved forward smoothly towards the day of the party.  
  
The evening before the engagement party, John and Sherlock were enjoying a quiet evening at home when they heard a knock on the door to 221B.  Wiggins went to answer it and John could tell from Sherlock's intent look that he was analysing the timber of the voices and other clues from their new clients.  
  
John sighed as he replaced his slippers with his boots and stood to shed his dressing gown.  "Remember, Sherlock - we have to be finished with the case by tomorrow afternoon.  Georgia would never forgive us if we weren't here for her party."  
  
Sherlock was exchanging his own dressing gown for coat and he gave his husband an affronted look.  "I'm not likely to forget."  
  
"When you are in the middle of the case you usually forget everything else," John reminded him.  "Food.  Sleep.  Other people..." 

Sherlock glared at him and then swept through the doorway, and John followed him, grinning.  They descended to the work parlour where Wiggins was offering refreshment to the two men there, which they declined.  Sherlock paused, his eyes quickly assessing the situation, then he walked over to the window and glanced outside.  He turned back to the room, making a gesture of dismissal to Wiggins.  
  
"That will be all, Wiggins.  Oh, Mrs. Hudson has lost her gold pince-nez again - please locate it."   
  
Wiggins bowed his head.  "At once, m'lord."    
  
He withdrew from the room but without shutting the door behind him and Sherlock turned to the fireplace, fiddling with something on the mantle.  John took the opportunity to study their clients.  He recognized Bradstreet of the Bow Street Runners as one of them, for he often consulted Sherlock, but the other man was unfamiliar to him.  He was slightly taller than John with the unfit constitution of a man who sat behind a desk and a rather supercilious expression on his face as he looked around the room.  John took an instant aversion to the man and hoped that he wasn't their client.  
  
"Now, Bradstreet," Sherlock said, turning back to their visitors.  "How may we be of assistance?"  
  
Bradstreet cleared his throat and removed a small notebook from his pocket.  "Late last night, it being near midnight on May 1st, Baron Moriarty was making his way home from his club when he was set upon."  
  
John frowned at the mention of Moriarty but a quick look from Sherlock made him hold his tongue.  
  
"Although Lord Moriarty surrendered his watch and wallet, the toughs attempted to beat him into insensibility.  They would have succeeded had it not been for a passing carriage, whose owner stopped and frightened the footpads away.  He then conveyed Lord Moriarty home, where Viscount Blessington summoned a doctor and a member of the Watch."  
  
"Was my nephew badly injured?" John asked, trying to assume a convincing degree of concern.  He wondered if one of Moriarty's underworld dealings had gone wrong and devoutly hoped that his web was beginning to unravel.  
  
The other man snorted.  "Much you care," he said, a derisive tone in his voice.  
  
John drew himself up, affronted by the man's rudeness, as Sherlock quickly said, "Bradstreet, perhaps you would introduce your charming companion?"  
  
Bradstreet had turned pink at his companion's words.  "Lord Saughton, Lord Sherlock, may I introduce Magistrate Hugh Morton of Bow Street?"  _My boss_ , was left unvoiced but apparent.  "Lord Moriarty has sustained significant injuries that will confine him to his bed for a few days, but he is expected to recover."  
  
"His watch was pawned," Morton interrupted.  "Our men discovered it this afternoon and it was traced to a known felon. That man was arrested and confessed that he was hired to attack Lord Moriarty.  By the Earl of Saughton."  
  
John felt his jaw drop.  "W-what?  That's impossible!  Why would I do that?" he asked Bradstreet.  
  
Bradstreet wouldn't meet his eyes, staring at his notebook instead.  "Said the matter was fixed up at the Nag's Head in Knightsbridge yesterday evening, that he was paid half in advance, and he described the man."  
  
"You fit the description like a glove," Morton said, stepping closer to John, glaring at him.    
  
"Of course he could describe me!" John retorted, his temper starting to rise.  "I've been illustrated in the papers!  I've been all over London!"  
  
"You watch your tone," the magistrate growled, shaking his fist at John.  "You Peers think you're above the law, that you can do anything that you like!  You'll soon find out how wrong you are!  Bradstreet, put the darbies on him!"  
  
"John was at home all day yesterday, and today as well," Sherlock said, drawing Morton's attention to him.  "He had no meetings, clandestine or otherwise."  
  
Morton's lip curled.  "You would say that, wouldn't you?  _Detective_ , you call yourself.  Bloody Omega lapdog - you'd lie through your pretty teeth for your _Alpha_ , wouldn't you?"  
  
Fury at having Sherlock so insulted boiled up inside of John.  He pulled back his fist and punched the magistrate in the face, breaking his nose. 

* * *

The next few minutes were utter chaos.  Two Runners burst in from the street, grabbing John's arms, and Bradstreet hurried forward to fasten a handcuff to John's right wrist.  Morton pressed his handkerchief to his bleeding nose, shouting for him to cuff Sherlock as well, and Bradstreet snapped the other cuff to Sherlock's wrist, cuffing them together.  Through it, Sherlock remained calm, one hand in his pocket, his eyes assessing the room. Bradstreet turned away to address the other two Runners, sending them out to fetch a cab.  
  
"John," Sherlock said and John turned his attention to him.  "Vatican Cameos."  
  
As he spoke, he pulled his hand out of his pocket and threw something into the fireplace while John prepared to run.  Immediately, smoke began to billow out from the fire and Sherlock whirled towards the doorway.  John grasped his husband's hand to reduce the pull of the cuffs and followed as Sherlock raced down the hallway, towards the back of the house instead of the front.  Wiggins was waiting by the open back door and as they passed through, he shut and locked the door behind them.  John concentrated on keeping up with his husband's longer strides as they bolted through the mews' gate and down the alley.  They wound through back-streets and alleyways until even John had lost track of where they were.  After fifteen minutes of running, Sherlock slowed down to allow them to catch their breath.    
  
"Why did we run?" John demanded of Sherlock when he could speak without panting.  "Now I'll look guilty - it was a simple assault!"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "Something was wrong; I doubt you would have been safe in gaol.  I don't trust anyone involved, not until we know more."  
  
They reached the mouth of the alley where it opened onto a busier street, and Sherlock paused to peer around the corner.  Having determined that it was safe, he once more took John's hand and stepped out on the street, joining the passing crowd.  They continue onward, keeping a sharp eye out for Runners.    
  
"Where are we going?" John asked, recognising the area as Marylebone.  
  
"A bolt-hole of mine," Sherlock replied.  "Leinster Gardens.  I won it in a card game with the Clarence House Cannibal, the year before we met.  No one, not even Mycroft, knows about it.  Except Wiggins, of course.  I've used it when I need to change into a disguise."  
  
They crossed Edgeware without incident, and John realized that it must be late in the evening as the shops were shuttering for the night.  He thought longingly of their home, its quiet comfort, and then, with a pang, of their daughter.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson and Annie will take good care of Helen tonight, and should this matter not resolve quickly, Mycroft will look after her," Sherlock said, with his usual uncanny insight.  
  
John nodded, although that didn't ease his pain.  They followed Craven Road, turned onto Leinster Gardens, and a moment later Sherlock unlocked the door to an unassuming-looking house. John glanced inside, unable to make out much in the dark.  There was a candlestick and tinder on the table inside and Sherlock lit the candle, then closed and locked the door behind them.     
  
Sherlock led the way into the front room and, as they were still cuffed together, John perforce followed.  Sherlock put the candlestick down on a table and gestured for John to sit, then crouched so he could examine the lock of the cuffs.  He pulled a hairpin from his pocket and began working on the mechanism, and John idly wondered why his husband was carrying hairpins in his pocket.    
  
Once they were free, Sherlock went about lighting candles around the room, then knelt by the fireplace to set fire to the kindling prepared there.  John, meanwhile, investigated the little house with one of the candles, finding it bare of furniture and in dire need of cleaning.  A trunk in the corner of the single bedroom proved to hold some of Sherlock's disguises, and there was a vanity table in the same room that was cluttered with theatrical make-up.  There were a few hooks on the wall and John used one for his coat; it appeared that they would have to sleep in their clothes.  A pile of blankets were folded and stacked near the fire, so at least they'd be able to sleep comfortably for the night.  
  
By the time he returned to the front room, Sherlock had unearthed several jars of food and two bottles of ale, and he was setting them out on the little table flanked by two chairs.  They made quick work of the meagre meal.    
  
"What next?" John asked.  "We can't stay here long, even with Wiggins to provide for us."  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "We can't risk him coming here; there's not enough foot traffic for him to hide in.  He might be followed - if not by the Runners then by Moriarty's agents."  
  
"Then you think Moriarty was behind his own attack, don't you?" he asked Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  "No one else would have reason to implicate you, although I fail to see the logic behind it.  What does he gain by seeing you charged?"  
  
"Disgrace," John replied.  "Humiliation.  Possibly driving me out of London."  
  
"But the Saughton estate would still be yours.  Only treason would be enough to deprive you of it."  
  
_Or death_ , remained unvoiced by either of them.

* * *

After eating their dinner, they wrapped up in the blankets and settled in front of the fire to get some rest.  The next day would be a difficult one, evading the authorities and anyone in Moriarty's employ, and they would also need to somehow investigate their own case.  Although it wasn't the most uncomfortable accommodation John had ever had, he had trouble falling asleep.  His mind kept spinning, going over Bradstreet's words and their own impossible situation, and he felt helpless.  Only Sherlock's presence reassured him, for if anyone could sort out this problem, it was his husband.  Sherlock had unearthed a pipe and tobacco from somewhere and sat by John's side, smoking it and clearly deep in thought.  It was with this comforting sight before him that John finally drifted off to sleep.  
  
Sherlock woke John long before dawn and they tidied as best they could in a basin of cold water.  Their cravats were hopelessly spoiled and their shirts stale with sweat and smoke, but hanging up the coats had saved them from wrinkling.  Once John had settled his coat comfortably, Sherlock handed him a Belcher handkerchief to tie around his neck and a cloth cap for his head, while Sherlock wrapped a long wool scarf around his own neck and pulled on a deerstalker cap.  After checking that the street was empty, they let themselves out of the house and made their way back to Edgeware where they joined the tradesmen making their way into the city.  They caught a ride across town on the back of a cart for the price of a sovereign and arrived at St. Bart's Hospital with the charwomen.  
  
"What are we doing here?" John muttered to Sherlock as they slipped in behind the gossiping women.  
  
"Molly," Sherlock replied, leading them towards the stairs to the basement.  "She will hide us, bring us supplies and information.  And Moriarty has forgotten all about that nursemaid he wronged so he won't be looking for us here, even if he knew what had become of her."  
  
"Molly!" John exclaimed.  "Oh my God, Sherlock!  It's May 3rd!"  Sherlock gave him a blank look.  "The engagement party? Georgie will kill us both!"  
  
"It was hardly our fault."  Sherlock pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door to the morgue, locking it behind them.  John wondered how many keys to how many places Sherlock had and decided that it was best not to ask.  
  
Molly had a sofa in her office with a stack of blankets and they took advantage of the comfort to rest for a bit.  Huddling together against the basement's chill, they wrapped the blankets around themselves and John allowed himself to doze.  
  
The sound of a key in the outer door to the morgue woke him and he sat upright, startled out of sleep.  Sherlock held a cautionary finger to his own lips and John nodded, rising to his feet and waiting tensely for the office door to open.  When it did, Molly stood in the opening, staring at them for a moment before closing the door behind her and crossing to hug John.  
  
"Thank God you're safe," she said, and turned to smile at Sherlock.  
  
"You've heard?" John asked, his heart heavy at the thought that all of London knew of this new scandal.  
  
"Wiggins sent word to your sister, and to your brother, too," she said to Sherlock.  "I was with the Dalrymples when the message arrived."  
  
"I am so sorry about your engagement dinner - " John began, but Molly hushed him quickly.  
  
"It will happen, once this is behind us," she assured him.  "Now, what do you need?"  
  
"For now, asylum, and a message to Wiggins," Sherlock said.  He quickly brought her up to speed on events, and Molly frowned in thought at the end.    
  
"How do we prove that Lord Moriarty was behind this?" she asked, looking to Sherlock.  "Can your brother...?"  
  
Sherlock scowled.  "If _only_ he could be so useful.  He has information that he has failed to use...  Wiggins will be putting out inquiries through the Irregulars and I trust their ability to ferret out information about these hired men.  Once this allegation is disproved we can set about tearing down Moriarty."  
  
Molly nodded.  "He must have powerful friends, to have dared to do this."  
  
"But do they know the truth about him?" John said.  "If we show that he has lied, and murdered to protect that lie, they will fade away."  
  
Molly nodded in agreement.  "You are safe in here - no one comes to my office.  We have two mortuary rooms so I'll let the attendants know that I am having this one cleaned."  
  
"Be careful that you do nothing out of the ordinary," Sherlock cautioned.  "I doubt that you're being watched personally, but your connection to Georgia's family might be known by now."  
  
Molly nodded again and then, with a promise to bring them some breakfast, she went off to attend to her usual duties.  She also agreed to let Wiggins know that they were safe.

Molly was as good as her word, and less than an hour later she returned with a tray containing coffee, fruit, and muffins.  She had also brought a few newspapers, and Sherlock grabbed them while John poured out the coffee and shared the fruit between them.  He glanced over at the stack of papers and then nearly dropped his cup as he caught sight of the headline on one.  
  
**John Watson Is A Fraud!** _by Kitty Riley_  
  
He grabbed the paper and, with an increasing sense of numbness, began reading the story.  She had gone over every one of his published stories, attempting to locate the real people behind the cases where he had disguised names and other details to protect their clients.  Fortunately, she hadn't been able to find them, for which John was thankful, but Kitty had apparently taken umbrage at this.  She then accused him of making up all the stories, inventing them to make his husband appear clever.  Sherlock, she wrote, was not clever, just rude and arrogant and _common_.  Her sympathy for him in the first article had evaporated, and she was vicious and vindictive in her writing. The cases that had made the newspapers were also ripped apart, Kitty claiming that John had staged each of them, hiring con-men and other criminals to commit the crimes so that Sherlock could appear to solve them.    
  
"Lord Saughton and his not-so-clever fraud of a husband _disgust_ me", she declared at the end of it, and called for charges to be laid against both of them for defrauding the public.  The sheer audacity of her claims nauseated John, and he could hardly believe that the paper had dared to print them.    
  
"John?" Sherlock asked, and John realized that he'd gone silent and pale.  Silently, he handed the newspaper to his husband.  
  
Sherlock scanned the article rapidly and then tossed it aside.  "I wondered when she'd get around to me."

John didn't reply, _couldn't_ , for he was sick at heart at the allegations, so he was surprised out of his dark thoughts when Sherlock's large hand grasped his own hands tightly.  
  
"John, _you_ know that her words are lies.  _Everyone_ who knows you knows the truth.  There are nearly a _hundred_ people out there who we've helped, and while they might not have come forward for me, they will come forward for _you_.  Major Sholto and the Baskervilles, Silver Blaze's owner and Constable Gregory, Dr. Trevalyn and Constable Hopkins, Miss Smith and Miss Hunter.  And so many others, too."  
  
"But some people will believe," John said lowly.  "No matter what we uncover, no matter how this ends, there will be some who will believe her lies."  
  
Sherlock said nothing more, merely squeezed his hand again, and they sat in silence for a long time.

* * *

  
Wiggins arrived mid-afternoon, although he was so disguised that John hardly recognized him.  He carried a carpetbag which was filled with clean shirts and cravats for each of them, as well as other items.  A tea towel was wrapped around a dozen little meat pies with two bottles of ale tucked down the side, and John blessed Mrs. Hudson and Cook.  At the bottom of the bag was his revolver and ammunition, and he soberly set them on his lap before looking over at Sherlock.  
  
"The news is bad, then," Sherlock said to Wiggins.  
  
Wiggins nodded, helping himself to one of the meat pies.  "They've searched the house, m'lord, and pried open Lord Saughton's desk.  Found the little gun in the bottom drawer."  He quirked an eyebrow in John's direction.  "Word is that Mr. Charles Magnussen's manservant recognized it, said it belonged to his former employer.  The magistrate has laid a charge of murder against Lord Saughton, for Magnussen's death."  
  
"I didn't shoot him," John told Wiggins.  
  
"Lor', you didn't need to tell me that," Wiggins said tranquilly.  "The lads have turned up a few things about the toughs hired to rough up that bastard, _and_ the name of the party what took him up in his carriage, which bit is int'resting.  _And_ Langdale Pike is wishful to meet with you," he said to Sherlock.  "He's got a bead on that Riley woman and is willing to go toe-to-toe."  
  
Sherlock looked pleased by this and he spent the next half hour at Molly's desk, writing out notes for Wiggins to deliver.  John, meanwhile, took one of the meat pies and a bottle, retiring to a chair on the other side of the room.  He couldn't have been said to actually eat the pie, just picked at it idly while his thoughts spun in darker and darker circles.  An assault charge was one thing but murder was an entirely different matter.  Peer or not, if he was found guilty he would hang.  He didn't know why the servant had lied about ownership of the gun, but while he was relieved that the finger wasn't being pointed at Mary, having the charge laid at his feet was worse.  If he was caught now he would leave Sherlock and Helen with a tarnished name.  The best option was to flee to the Continent, although John had no desire to live the life of an exile, away from his husband and daughter -  and still less desire to inflict such an insecure life on them.  But if it would save them from the humiliation of having him a convicted murderer...  He watched Sherlock, his heart aching at the choices before him.  
  
Molly had sat down beside him with her own dinner and he could feel her eyes on him.  "You look sad," she said finally, softly.  
  
John stirred from his dark thoughts, turned to look at her.  "What?"  
  
"You look sad," she repeated, then looked over at Sherlock.  "When you think he isn't looking at you."  
  
"Molly..."  
  
"It's all right.  I understand."  She drew in a deep breath.  "My father.  I don't remember much, but he was ill for a bit before they died.  Consumption, although I didn't know it then.  He was a kind man, always cheerful whenever we were around, except when he thought no one could see him.  Then he was sad."  
  
John's eyes went to Sherlock like a pin to a magnet.  Sherlock's brow was puckered as he read over what he had just written, his curls untamed by pomade and falling across his forehead, and John thought he'd never looked lovelier.  His heart contracted in pain at the thought of losing him.  
  
"Are you all right?" Molly asked quietly.  He looked at her and started to open his mouth to assert that he was fine, of course he was, but she shook her head.  "And don't just say that you are, because I know what that means: looking sad when no one can see you."  
  
"But _you_ can see me," John said, just as quietly.  
  
Molly shook her head slightly, a self-deprecating smile on her lips.  "I don't count."  
  
John blinked at that and he wanted to assure her that of course she counted, _of course_ she did, but she just smiled at him.  
  
"It's all right.  I don't mind.  I just wanted to say - if you need anything, if there is anything that I can do, just ask."  
  
John nodded, robbed of speech for a moment by the tightness of his throat.  "Thank you," he managed to say.  
  
She smiled and rose to her feet.  "I'm going to fetch more tea.  Would you like some?  Never mind - of course you would."  
  
"Molly," he said, before she could move away, and she looked at him inquiringly.  "If...if something should happen...you _will_ look out for him, won't you?"  
  
She smiled at him, sad but strong, and he was grateful that she was there for Georgia.  "Of course I will.  We're family."  
  
John watched as she slipped quietly out of the office, then his attention drifted back to Sherlock.  
  
Wiggins left, bearing the notes from Sherlock.  As the morgue had closed for the night the outer door was locked against curious intruders, so Sherlock joined John at table.  He was clearly pleased with the result of his work although not ready to share yet, but that was all right with John.  His own mind was preoccupied with his thoughts and they weren't particularly pleasant to begin with, but as he watched Sherlock, they moved into a much happier direction.  He watched with a sense of accomplishment as Sherlock consumed a couple of the meat pies, pleased at the way the younger man looked.  Despite the danger they were in, there was a sort of glow about him, the excitement of a case overlying his general good health.  When he thought about the skinny young man he'd first met, with a chip on his shoulder and a wariness of the world, John felt a peaceful sort of contentment.  
  
Not such a bad legacy to leave behind.  
  
Sherlock looked up and met his eyes, his breath catching.  " _John_ ," he breathed.  Then he got up and locked the office door.

* * *

They woke early in the morning of May 4th, before the day staff of the hospital were stirring, and dressed in the clothes that Wiggins had brought for them the previous day.  There were no words between them, just a quiet certainty of joint purpose.  Not _tranquil_ \- not with all of this hanging over them - but it was comforting that they knew where they stood with each other.  
  
Molly arrived with breakfast and with two of Sherlock's Irregulars.  One handed Sherlock a note and he read it avidly, then smiled over at John.    
  
"Langdale Pike's agreed to meet with us this morning!" he told John.  "He's got damning information about Riley and he's ready to help.  We're going to meet him now."  
  
John looked up from the note that the other boy had given him, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.  "I need to stay here."  
  
"John - "  
  
"Safer that way - for both of us.  If I go out on the street there's a chance that I'll be recognized.  If we're in gaol, we can't solve the case."    
  
Sherlock frowned but reluctantly nodded.  "Very well."  He picked up his hat and brushed a kiss over John's cheek.  "I'll be back as soon as I can."  
  
He hurried out of the room, followed by the two boys.  Molly started to follow but John called her back.  
  
"You're wrong, you know," John said to her.  "You _do_ count. You’ve _always_ counted and I _know_ that Sherlock has always trusted you."  He drew in a deep breath.  "But you were right.  I’m not okay."  
  
Molly nodded her head once.  "Tell me what's wrong."  
  
John clenched his fist and swallowed hard.  "Molly, I think I'm going to die."  He looked down in the note in his hand, the note that the second boy had slipped to him when Sherlock wasn't looking.  It said:  
  
_Come and play._  
_Bart’s Hospital rooftop._  
_1 Hour_  
  
_P.S. I've got something of yours that you might want back._  
  
  
John looked back up and met her eyes.  Molly straightened her shoulders, meeting his eyes squarely with a fierce determination that said, ' _Not if I can help it_.'  
  
"What do you need?" she asked.  
  
John smiled grimly, and there was determination in his eyes as well.  " _You_."

* * *

  
An hour later, John let himself out of the morgue, carefully checking that the hallway was clear.  He encountered no one as he made his way to the stairwell and climbed up the stairs to the top of St. Bart's.  There was a piece of paper affixed to the roof door by a small stiletto knife.  
  
_I’m waiting_  
_JM_  
  
John took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, then opened the door and stepped out onto the roof.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know why May the 4th is important to canon Sherlock Holmes fans and don't mind being spoiled, then [check out this post from Sherlockology.](http://sherlockology.tumblr.com/post/49584885446/reichenbach-date) You might want to have tissues handy.


	59. Part V: Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Up on the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to Ariane DeVere for her transcripts! They were invaluable for this entire story, and especially this chapter. And yes, Moriarty has never read the Evil Overlord Rules so he doesn't know that he shouldn't spend all his time talking about his plans like a Bond villain. 
> 
> WARNING: Canon Character Death in this chapter. That's all I'm sayin'.

Lord Moriarty was sitting on the raised ledge of the roof, reading a copy of the previous day's newspaper, the one with the headline declaring that John was a fraud.  He didn't look up as John approached, didn't appear to notice him, until John halted a few feet away from him.  
  
"Well, you're punctual, I have to say," Moriarty said, tossing down the newspaper at last.  " _Boring_.  You could have at least kept me in a _little_ suspense."  
  
John's mouth tightened.  "You said that you have something that belongs to me."  
  
Moriarty tilted his head, eyes fixed on John with an unnerving stare.  "You've rather shown your hand there - not much of a gambler, are you?"  He rose from his seat and stood facing John, his hands in his pockets.  "Yes, I have something you're fond of - or rather, _Sebastian_ does.  I had him retrieve your precious little girl while she was on her morning walk with her nanny.  Fatal mistake, that, doing the same thing at the same time every day.  You should fire the woman - only I had Sebastian kill her."  He made an exaggerated face, covering his mouth. "How _very_ naughty of me!  But witnesses can be so inconvenient.  Speaking of which..."  
  
He turned to look across the roof. "Come out, Miss Riley!  No need to hide any more."  Kitty Riley slowly stood up from where she had apparently been sitting behind one of the chimneys, a notebook and quill in her hand.  "Search Lord Saughton's pockets."  
  
John turned as Kitty approached them looking ill at ease.  "Jim - " she protested but shut up as he snapped at her to _just do it_!  John kept his face expressionless as she removed the revolver from his pocket and gingerly handed it to Moriarty.  
  
"So tedious having to rely on _ordinary_ people," Moriarty said with a sigh.  "They have their uses, for a while, but then they just become a liability."    
  
Swiftly, before John could even blink, Moriarty raised the revolver and shot Kitty squarely in the chest.  John watched, horrified, as she dropped to the ground.  He tried to go to her but Moriarty aimed the gun at him.  
  
"Always the army doctor, to the end," Moriarty sneered.  "Sebastian told me about you.  You were supposed to die in France - he thought you had, but he couldn't get close enough to make certain.  Pity.  It would have saved us all this," he said, waving the gun around in a circle to indicate the roof.    
  
"And what, precisely, is 'all this'?" John asked, careful to keep his hands where Moriarty could see them, and also careful not to look towards the open door to the stairwell.  If he could keep Moriarty talking, it was possible that the other man might make a mistake, one that would allow John to get out of this alive.  
  
"The solution to our final problem, of course," Moriarty replied.  "Your death.  Tragic, really.  First you killed Kitty Riley for printing that terrible story about you.  'Esteemed Peer and writer proved to be a fraud' - I read it in the newspaper so it must be true.  And then you killed yourself.  One. Final. Act." 

Moriarty lowered the revolver and walked over to the side of the roof, looking down at the ground.  "At least I chose a nice, high building."  
  
John moved swiftly, grabbing Moriarty by his coat lapels and spinning him around so that his back was pressed against the ledge, his head over the side.  "You're insane."  
  
A corner of Moriarty's mouth quirked up but his eyes remained flat, expressionless.  "You're just realizing that now?"  
  
"Why shouldn't I just kill you?" John demanded.  "Why should I jump?"

"Because if you don't, darling little Helen dies," Moriarty said baldly.  "And not just her. Your family will die."  
  
John froze.  " _Sherlock_."  
  
Moriarty nodded, a gleam in his eyes.  "Not just Sherlock.  Everyone."  He leaned up towards John, pressing the muzzle of the gun against his side.  " _Everyone._ "  
  
John pulled Moriarty upright and released him, then stepped back and turned away.  Moriarty followed him, triumph on his face as John paced in a circle on the roof.  
  
"Your daughter.  Your husband.  Your sister," Moriarty said.  " _All_ dead."  
  
"You'll kill Helen anyway," John said hoarsely.  "She stands between you and the title."  
  
Moriarty shrugged, acknowledging the truth of that.  "Pity, but true.  Still, I _might_ let Sherlock live.  He's clever.  I like clever people.  He might be amusing for a while.  But if you don't jump, he _dies_."  
  
John stared out over the edge of the roof, down towards the street where people went about their business, unaware that up on the roof his life was ending.  "And to save them all, I die in disgrace," he said flatly.  
  
"Of course," Moriarty said, matter-of-factly.  "That's rather the point of all this."  
  
"It's not just the title, is it?" John asked.  "It's us.  All the Watsons.  You want us disgraced and dead.  Why?"  
  
" _Why_?" Moriarty gaped at him, as if unable to believe just how stupid John was.  "Your brother ruined my mother and then just _left us_!"  
  
"Sionaid Murphy, not Saraid," John said.  " _She_ was your real mother."  
  
Moriarty cocked his head.  "So you _did_ see the Bible page.  I wondered, when Magnussen turned up dead, but I thought you would take that page to the authorities if you had it.  And _then_ the pistol I gave Miss Morstan turned up in your possession - oh yes, I know all about that.  Magnussen's manservant works for me now, and he's been looking for her and that gun since she disappeared.  Did she run off with the page?  She always was a clever girl, our Mary."  
  
"You convinced Elizabeth Davenport to show you the original birth record and replaced it with a false one," John said.  "Only she must have realized something was wrong and asked to meet you.  Did she find the real one?  Is that what she had in her papers, the ones you stole from McFarlane's office?"  
  
"Well, you _have_ learned a bit by hanging onto Sherlock's coat-tails," Moriarty sneered.  "Yes, Sionaid was my mother, the feather-headed little cow.  Too stupid to get a ring on her finger before letting Watson in her bed, blinded by a scarlet coat and a charming smile."  
  
"But Sarah was smarter, wasn't she?" John asked.  "She got James to set her up in a little house of her own first, and later to bring her back to Scotland with him."  
  
"Oh, Sarah was the clever one of the sisters, not that it's saying much," Moriarty readily agreed.  "Smart enough to see that James Watson thought she was her sister -well, they _were_ very like, I heard.  We were walking through Dublin on the way to the market when he saw her.  Couldn't remember her name but he never forgot a face.  Sarah promised me a share in whatever she could get from him if I went along with her story, pretended that she was my mother.  And why wouldn't I?  My grandfather never looked at me without a harsh word or the slap of his hand, all because my mother had disgraced the family.  Aunt Jennifer ran away because of him, and Sarah and I left without a backward look."  
  
"But James didn't marry her, did he?  Those letters were fraudulent."  
  
"But excellent forgeries!" Moriarty said, delighted to show off.  _And why not?_ John thought bitterly.  It wasn't as if John could tell anyone what he learned.  The only other witness to this meeting was lying in a pool of her own blood.    
  
"But then why kill James's other children?  If you were declared legitimate, they would be bastards, unable to inherit.  Why kill them?"  
  
"That was Sarah," Moriarty said with a sigh.  "She didn't want James any more - that's why she agreed to marry that idiot gardener - but she hated seeing someone else in her place.  She hated the children - _all_ of them.  And _especially_ Janet, with her airs and her sanctimonious charity.  So she killed the little boys first - poisoned their soup while she was helping to nurse them."  
  
"She'd been their wet-nurse," John said, horrified.  "How could she do that?"  
  
Moriarty sneered at him again.  " _Sentiment_ ," he spat out.  "Such a boring emotion.  So _ordinary_."  
  
" _You're_ not ordinary, though, are you?" John said.  " _You_ killed little Jane."  
  
He nodded, readily admitting it, even seeming proud.  "Father's darling little Omega girl," he said in a sing-song voice, then scowled.  "He adored her, couldn't take his eyes off her.  All his attention on her and none left for me.  So I stopped her.  Father wanted to commit me to Saughtonhall after that but Sarah convinced him to send me back to Ireland, to her cousin."  He smiled at that, a smile that was all teeth and no humour.  "Ironic that the same cousin was the one to put a bullet in him."  
  
John caught his breath at that.  "So Moran _was_ the one who shot James."  
  
Moriarty's eyes narrowed.  "You never figured that out.  You're not _clever_ enough.  Sherlock must have."  Fire lit in his eyes at that, and interest.  "Oh, that's good, that's _very_ good.  I suppose I'll have to let him live - for a bit, anyway - so I can find out how he reasoned it out and what he knows."

He seemed to be so caught up in that thought that John risked taking a step toward him but the movement caught Moriarty's attention and he waved the gun at John, making him step back.    
  
"Aunt Sarah told me about poisoning the boys, described it in a letter, and she had a plan to kill every one of them," Moriarty continued.  "I didn't care - I had to claim the Moriarty title first."  
  
"Which meant killing the rest of the Murphy family?  Sean and Liam Murphy?  And what about Jennifer?  She couldn't inherit - she was a Beta."  
  
"She had the Bible," Moriarty replied.  "Grandfather told me about it, spat it at me while he lay dying.  Liam rushed me and died too quickly, but Grandfather..."  Moriarty licked his lips.  "He took such a lovely long time to die, and cursed me to the end.  Well, until he caught fire, and then he just screamed.  I burned the whole mill down around them."  
  
Revulsion swept over John and he wished he could shut the man up, but the longer he talked, the greater the chance that someone would find Helen and save her.  If Moriarty hadn't lied. If she wasn't already dead.  
  
"When did you realize that you might be able to inherit the Saughton title?" John asked, trying to divert Moriarty to a less violent topic.  
  
"Sebastian realized it first, during his visit to your brother's house.  One of the tenants was celebrating the birth of his son and James told him about the Scottish custom."  
  
"And you knew that if you could fix the documents, change them so that you were _Sarah's_ child legally, you could claim legitimacy and inherit the Saughton title," John said, pressing him to continue. "Only you didn't count on me."  
  
"You are uncommonly lucky," Moriarty said, clearly irritated by this.  "Sebastian thought you'd died in France - Sarah said the family never spoke of you until your uncle came to administer the estate after Father's death.  Then Janet couldn't _stop_ talking to Sarah about you, how she hated the idea that you were coming to Saughton.  Sebastian knew about Father's gambling and the estate's debts - he said that claiming a large debt of honour would make you put a period to your life.  And if not, Hope was supposed to kill you."  He scowled.  "Hope tried to play me, wanted to blackmail _me_ , but I ended him.  And now it's time to end _you_."  
  
But Moriarty had been distracted enough to drop his hand to his side and John leapt for the man.  Slamming his wrist against the wall made Moriarty drop the weapon and then they were struggling together, each of them trying to gain control of the fight.  John punched Moriarty in the jaw, knocking him back, but with a growl Moriarty launched himself at John, jabbing him in the throat.  John gasped and choked, bent over as he tried to regain his breath.  He used the position to head-butt Moriarty in the stomach, knocking him down, but then Moriarty came up with the revolver in his hand.  
  
"Enough!" he yelled at John.  "Just! _Die_!"  
  
Before he could aim the revolver at John or utter any more threats to make him jump over the side, they both heard someone clear their throat from the doorway to the roof.  Startled, Moriarty dropped his hand and turned, staring with disbelief at the man who stepped forward out of the shadows.  Sherlock had a revolver in his hand and it was levelled at Moriarty.  
  
"Lord Moriarty, if you wouldn't mind stepping away from my husband," Sherlock said, his voice like flint.  "I do believe that he finds your attention a shade annoying."  
  
Moriarty gaped at him, then looked between the two men.  "That's not fair!" he shouted.  "There's _two_ of you!"  
  
John couldn't help laughing at that, so relieved to see Sherlock standing there, looking cool and collected and _amazing_.  He wiped away the blood from where one of Moriarty's blows had cut his lip.  "There's _always_ two of us," he said, smiling over at his husband, affection in his eyes.  "Don't you read the _Strand_?"  
  
Sherlock smiled widely at that.  "Molly delivered your message," he told John, not taking his eyes off of Moriarty.  "Lestrade is on his way and Mycroft is intervening with the Runners."  
  
"Sherlock, Moran has Helen - "  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  "Sebastian Moran is in the hands of Constabulary, apprehended in his attempt to shove Annie into the path of a carriage.  He failed to realize that our footman, Shinwell Johnson, was once the chief enforcer for a former - _deceased_ \- rival of Lord Moriarty.  Johnson, it seems, carries a grudge for a long time.  Moran will most assuredly go to prison for attempted murder, if not for other crimes."  
  
John turned toward Moriarty and held his hand out for the revolver.  "It's over, Moriarty.  You've lost."  
  
Moriarty's eyes glinted at John.  "Your reputation is still in tatters.  Magnussen's death is on your head.  You'll _hang_ , John Watson, and I'll be there in Hell to shake your hand."  
  
Before John could move, Moriarty lifted the revolver to his mouth, then pulled the trigger.  The force of the gunshot was enough to topple him over the edge of the roof.  John rushed forward to lean over the side, staring down at the pavement where Moriarty's body lay, his lifeless eyes staring towards the sky.  
  
Sherlock's hand pulled John up and away from the edge, pulling him into his embrace.  "John," he said hoarsely, clutching his husband against him.  "When Molly told me, when she gave me the note....  _You_ _let me go_ \- "  He stopped, unable to speak, burying his face against John's neck.  
  
John clutched him just as hard, unable to believe that he had come through that confrontation relatively unscathed.  "I couldn't tell you. The boy who gave me the note - I didn't know if he was in Moriarty's employ.  I knew that I could trust Molly."  He drew a deep, shuddering breath.  "Sherlock, I'm still under suspicion - "  
  
He broke off as he felt Sherlock shaking his head.  "I brought Langdale Pike with me.  We've been listening on the landing; we heard Moriarty's entire confession.  Pike has enough information for an exclusive story of his own."  
  
Relief made John's knees weak and he sank down to the roof, drawing Sherlock down to kneel with him.  It would be a long time before either of them could let go of the other.


	60. Part V: Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the Fall, many loose ends are tied up, and John makes a not-so-surprising discovery about the meaning of happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done, and two years after I started in this 'verse it's been a fun ride! Thanks again to Ariane DeVere, without whose transcripts this story would have taken much, much longer to write. And also to Georgette Heyer, whose underrated story "A Civil Contract" was the driving force for this story, and which has been adapted throughout.

Molly was the first to intrude upon them, within minutes after the fatal gunshot, her face lighting up with relief when she sighted the pair of them.  She disappeared again, returning with a blanket that she wrapped around John, and it was only then that he realized that he was shaking.  A hot cup of tea was pressed into his hands next, and under Sherlock's concerned eyes, he took sips from it.  Lestrade appeared next, accompanied by several of his constables, and by Bradstreet of the Bow Street Runners.  There was an argument between the two men and it was clear that Bradstreet wanted to arrest John on the spot, and that Donovan was in agreement with him. 

Sherlock rose from where he'd knelt, furious at the pair of them.  "You can't arrest John!" he snapped.  "He's in shock!  Look - he has a blanket!"  
  
Bradstreet pointed to where Kitty Riley's body lay, now covered by a sheet as hospital attendants joined the growing throng on the roof.  "There is also a dead woman over there, and Lord Moriarty lying dead on the pavement!" he returned heatedly.  " _Someone_ has to answer for their deaths!"

" _Not John_ \- " Sherlock began, and John could see him gearing up for one of his devastating criticisms of the Runner's methods, morals, and manners.  However, before Sherlock could tear his head off, there was the sound of a throat clearing which caught all of their attention. 

"Gentlemen," Langdale Pike said, stepping forward from where he'd been quietly observing the situation.  "I would like to offer my assistance.  I witnessed the entire event, and I can testify to the innocence of Lord Saughton."  
  
"And you are?" Donovan asked, suspicion in her voice.  
  
"Mr. Langdale Pike."  
  
There was an immediate change of attitude in all three law enforcement officers.  Pike was not only a prominent new columnist, he was a frequent guest at the Palace and a great friend of the King.   
  
"Mr. Pike," Bradstreet said respectfully.  "Are you saying that Lord Saughton _didn't_ kill Miss Riley or Lord Moriarty?"  
  
"I didn't witness the murder of Miss Riley," Pike said, "however, Lord Moriarty was in sole possession of the weapon that did the deed, and I heard him confess to several crimes before he shot himself.  He also admitted that he had blackmailed Mr. Magnussen's manservant into lying about the revolver in Lord Saughton's possession."

Bradstreet looked stunned, for neither the press nor the general public had been informed about Magnussen's gun. 

"That's not possible," Donovan objected.  "Lord Moriarty's husband is the one who came forward with the testimony against Lord Saughton.  Why would he lie?"

"Why would Viscount Blessington lie about the fact that his husband was responsible for the murders?" Sherlock replied, the sarcasm in his voice so heavy that it could be cut by a knife.  "Oh, let us just _think_ for a moment.  Or are you even capable of thought, Donovan?"

One of the new Runners on the scene, a face that John recognized as Tobias Gregson, stepped forward then.  "Viscount Blessington has just been hauled off to Newgate Prison, sir," he told Bradstreet.  "He attempted to murder Lady Helen Watson and her nanny while they were out for an airing in Regent's Park.  In front of a dozen reliable witnesses."  
  
Bradstreet looked as if he'd been struck by a runaway horse.  "But - Magistrate Morton has frequently dined with Lord Blessington - oh good Lord!"   He looked over at John with a guilty expression on his face.    
  
Sherlock looked grimly pleased by Bradstreet's realization that he had been played for a fool.  "May I remove John from the scene _now_?" he asked, his voice acerbic.  "He has sustained a severe shock as well as several very trying days.  He should be home, resting."  
  
"Technically, Lord Saughton is still under suspicion until we have ascertained the full events," Bradstreet replied.  He looked at Lestrade who had folded his arms and was staring at him in disbelief, then at Gregson, and finally back at Sherlock.  He shook his head.  "Off with you, then, but no jaunts to the Continent until we can obtain your statement tomorrow morning."  
  
"Lord Saughton needs to be evaluated by a doctor first," Molly said, unexpectedly.  "He's had a considerable shock."  She tilted her chin up defiantly when John glowered at her and refused to back down. 

"I agree," Sherlock said, unexpectedly, and John transferred his angry look to his husband.  He felt fine and he wanted to be home, _now_.  He needed to see Helen with his own eyes, needed to hold her and make sure that she and Annie were all right.  But neither Sherlock nor Molly seemed inclined to budge and, faced with their united front, John sighed and surrendered.  
  
Fortunately, Stamford was available and quickly examined John, determining that nothing was wrong with him other than exhaustion.  He prescribed a tincture of laudanum in case John had trouble sleeping and sent him home to Baker Street to rest. 

* * *

A short time later, a cab set them down at 221 Baker Street, to John's great relief.  The entire household seemed to burst out onto the pavement to welcome them home, with Mrs. Hudson breaking down in tears of relief as she hugged them both.  In short order, John was relieved of his coat and settled into a chair before the parlour fireplace with Sherlock by his side as his valet removed his boots.  But it wasn't until Annie put Helen into his arms that John felt that he was truly home.

They dined early, forgoing the usual formal dining for an extended family supper together, for John had insisted that Helen eat with them.  Johnson had already left, following Moran's arrest, but the rest of the staff was also invited, including Annie and Wiggins.  They made a picnic of the meal in the upstairs salon, one of the few rooms not disrupted by the Runners in their searches, and John recklessly ordered several bottles of champagne (purchased for Georgia's engagement party) to be opened as well.  Annie sat at the piano and displayed remarkable skill with it, and Sherlock fetched his violin to accompany her.  John coaxed Mrs. Hudson into joining him for a country dance, despite her protests about her hip, while Wiggins and little Helen clapped and cheered.  It was a merry evening, much better than the previous two nights, and when Annie finally carried Helen off to bed and the servants went to their own rest, John found that he was reluctant for the night to end, despite his fatigue.  Fortunately, Sherlock was willing to extend their evening, humming tunes for John to waltz with him by and sharing champagne-flavoured kisses until neither could ignore their fatigue.  By the time they tumbled into bed together, John was a trifle bosky and fell into a deep sleep without the need of Stamford's prescription.

By the next morning, when Bradstreet came to take their statements, John had been sufficiently exonerated enough for the constables stationed at their doors to be dismissed.  They relayed the full story to Bradstreet and Gregson, who had been seconded to the Runners, and Sherlock showed them the clues that he'd collected on his crime wall.  John listened to Sherlock's explanations for the most part, making a few mental clues for the journal entry he intended to make, marvelling again at how his husband strung together clues to form a cohesive pattern. 

After Bradstreet was satisfied and the two Runners took their leave, John was thankful to collapse into his own chair in the sitting room.  It was still a bit at sixes and sevens following the search by the Runners, as the maids and Mrs. Hudson were attending to the public rooms first, but he didn't mind the clutter so long as nothing was damaged.  However, when Helen was brought down from the nursery for tea, there was little cleared room for her to safely explore in so John sat her on his lap and dangled his pocket-watch for her to examine.  Sherlock had begun to sort of the scattered papers, one of which reminded him of an old case (Before John), and he was regaling John with the story when he abruptly stopped speaking and jumped up from the sofa.  Surprised, John looked up to see Mycroft enter the room, followed by the maid bearing the tea tray.  He was surprised to realize that Sherlock was furious, his anger directed at his brother.  
  
"Wiggins!" he called loudly, and when the young man popped his head into the room, Sherlock pointed at his brother. "Throw this man out!  And tell the staff that he is _not_ to be permitted into this house!"  
  
"Really, Sherlock!" Mycroft protested but stopped under the weight of Sherlock's glare.  
  
"John nearly died yesterday and _you_ are partially responsible," Sherlock snapped at his brother.  "If you hadn't been so involved in your bloody power games, if you'd released the document you took from Miss Morstan - "  
  
"And done _what_ with it?" Mycroft asked him.  "On its own, it was nearly worthless, easily discredited.  I needed more information, and more _proof_ of Lord Moriarty's illegal activities."

John sensed that the two brothers were about to devolve into a shouting match, not something that he wanted Helen to be a party to.  He turned to where Annie sat, working on a bit of mending, and said, "Annie, Lady Helen will have her tea in the nursery today, if you don't mind."  Annie nodded and took Helen from him, bearing her off to the nursery as John turned back to his brother-in-law.  "Did you get what you were looking for?" he asked, hoping to deflect the coming argument. 

"Of course he did!" Sherlock said.  "That's why he's here - to gloat!"  
  
Mycroft watched wistfully as Helen was taken out of the room, sighing and then turning back to John.  "I have made a good start in the matter.  Miss Morstan was good enough to give me a list of Lord Moriarty's known associates, before she left the country.  I have been...collecting these persons, discussing their various ties to him, and learning of other links."  
  
"Please tell me that Magistrate Morton was one of them," John said.  He had taken an intense dislike to the man, and while he was willing to absolve Lestrade and even, grudgingly, Donovan, he didn't feel the same inclination towards Morton.  
  
Mycroft nodded.  "And Water Surveyor Brown, both of whom have been incarcerated at His Majesty's pleasure this morning.  You'd have thought that _one_ of their peers would have noticed the shocking lack of evidence in the allegations against you," he said, curling his lip at a clear jab at Donovan.  "I'm certain that Greg would have, if he hadn't been barred from the investigation."

"I assume that is no longer the case," John said, passing a cup of tea to his brother-in-law.  He found that he couldn't resent Mycroft's delay in coming to his aid, not today when he was fully appreciating all that he had nearly lost.

"An investigative team has been formed to look into the matter, with members from various different agencies," Mycroft replied.  "Working together - and there's a wonder for you.  It seems that Sir Robert Peele is correct in his assessment that England needs a professional police force."  
  
Sherlock snorted.  "As if that would make them any less idiotic than they already are."  
  
"Magistrates, constables, the press - Moriarty had a finger in a great many pies," John observed.  
  
Mycroft nodded.  "Lord Moriarty was in the process of assembling a considerable criminal network, not only in England but also in Europe."  
  
Aghast, John said, "Surely we can't allow that to happen!"  He looked over at Sherlock, meeting his eyes and seeing the same thought.  John didn't want to leave England - especially not Helen when she was so young - but wasn't it their duty to bring down Moriarty's fledgeling empire?  
  
"Not to worry, John," Mycroft said, his eyes moving between John and his brother.  "I already have agents in place in Switzerland.  They will be much better suited to this task."  
  
There was a knock at the downstairs door and a few minutes later, Lestrade entered the room.  "No tea for me, John, thanks.  Moran wishes to confess, but only if Sherlock is present."  
  
Sherlock's eyes lit up and he sprang from his chair.  "Our coats, Wiggins!" he called out.  "Mrs. Hudson, we are going out - don't wait dinner."

  
Lord Blessington, the former Colonel Sebastian Moran, was being held in Newgate Prison's holding area for special prisoners - no doubt because members of law enforcement were worried about the corruptibility of prison guards elsewhere.  As they followed the guards to the interview room, John could see that the number of guards had been increased and all were in a high state of alert.  Lestrade confided that both Brown and Morton were confined in the same area, along with a few others in varying walks of life who had been implicated in the Moriarty scandal - including a politician.  
  
"No doubt there will be more as those incarcerated hasten to provide other names in the hope of lessening their culpability," Mycroft said on the carriage ride to Newgate.  He left them at the gates, on his way to a hastily assembled meeting of the Cabinet to discuss the crisis.  Lestrade accompanied them through the prison although, technically speaking, this was far outside the Thames River Police's authority.  His integrity, however, was unquestionable, and John had a feeling that if Peele's police force came about, Lestrade would be near the top of the structure.    
  
Moran was seated at the table in the interview room, his hands and feet shackled and a guard to either side of him.  In addition to the Court Clerk, one of the sheriffs of London was present and Gregson, although it was clear that a little rivalry was forming between him and Lestrade.  Moran looked up briefly as John and Sherlock entered the room, his mouth twisting with bitterness.  
  
"They said you survived," he said to John, his voice hoarse.  John could see bruises on his throat and imagined that it had taken brutal force on Johnson's part to subdue Moran.  Considering that his daughter's life had been on the line, John had no problem with that.  
  
"Yes," John said, lifting his chin.    
  
Moran nodded his head.  "I warned Jamie about you," he said.  "Army surgeons are tough bastards.  Told him not to underestimate you - even if you were nothing like your brother."  
  
"You were his _friend_ ," John said, feeling his anger start to rise.  "And you killed him."  
  
The clerk in the room made a protesting noise at that but Moran raised his shackled hands to cut him off.    
  
"I'll not deny it," Moran said.  "I liked James.  He was a charmer - nearly everyone liked him.  Could coax the birds down out of the trees and a nun out of her habit.  Jamie was the only one I ever knew who hated him - had a right bee in his bonnet about the matter.  Even _Sarah_ still liked him; it was Janet she couldn't abide, with her airs and such."  
  
"If you liked him then why did you shoot him?" Sherlock asked, sitting at the table across from Moran.  
  
Moran shrugged.  "Jamie wanted him dead," he said simply.  "Whatever Jamie wanted, he got."  
  
"Not quite," John said, sitting beside Sherlock.  "He wanted me dead and disgraced, yet here I am.  And your Jamie is dead - by his own hand."  
  
Moran bowed down his head, muttering, "He wouldn't have wanted to live after losing, not to _you_."  
  
"Then you admit to killing James Watson, the previous Earl of Saughton?" Gregson asked.  
  
"I've said it, haven't I?" Moran said irritably.  He raised his head to glare at John, and he was startled to see tears in the man's eyes.  "You don't care about Jamie, you're _glad_ he's dead, but he was my sweet lad, and I loved him.  He was my sun and moon, and I don't care to live without him."  
  
Moran turned to face Sherlock, his eyes flicking up to Lestrade, Gregson, then the sheriff.  "So _yes_ , I shot James Watson with a hunting rifle.  One of his own, took it from the gun room while I was visiting and hid it in an outbuilding.  And while I'm making my confession, I shot Colonel Hayton and his wife, and Ronald Adair, with a special gun that I had built in Switzerland."  
  
The clerk's eyes widened and he began scribbling faster, as Lestrade and the others pressed for more details.  Once they'd finished, Sherlock - who John thought had been oddly silent - spoke up.  
  
"You didn't mention your father."    
  
Moran looked up at Sherlock but stayed silent.  
  
"They said that he'd gone mad," Sherlock began.  "It started in Persia with odd, destructive fits.  He retired, returned to the estate, but it got worse.  Rumours began - that he'd planned to blow up Parliament, that he'd killed his valet in a fit of temper.  The Moriarty taint, they said.  Your sister died in a madhouse, as did your grandmother, so it was no surprise to anyone when your father was locked up for his own good.  Only he wasn't _mad_ , just in your way.  Did he object to your marriage?  Is that why you killed him?"  
  
Moran glared at Sherlock.  "Bastard."  
  
"Oh, there isn't a doubt that _my_ parents were married," Sherlock replied.  "Unlike your _husband_ , whom your father knew was a bastard and not entitled to the Moriarty title or estate, nor the profits from the Murphy-Gallager mills.  Your father refused to give his consent and threatened to cut you out, so you killed him but maintained the pretence that he was alive.  _That's_ why his valet was murdered, so he couldn't reveal the truth - and was that you or your husband?  I would hazard a bet on Moriarty; there was a certain viciousness to the violence inflicted on the poor man, whereas you prefer a clean shot.  You've no morals, but you're not mad - unlike Seamus Murphy, who was clearly insane from childhood onward."  
  
Moran lunged for Sherlock across the table, swearing blue murder at him, and was restrained by the guards.  They wrestled him back into the chair, securing him to it, while Lestrade drew Sherlock and John outside of the interview room.

"Perhaps it would be best if you leave the rest to us," Lestrade said to Sherlock.  "You're certain he murdered his father?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and, in a bored tone, laid out a few facts for Lestrade in support of his deduction.  When he'd finished, John looked at his husband in amazement and murmured, "Brilliant," just loud enough for John to hear.  Sherlock turned to look at John and then back at Lestrade.  
  
"You're right, Geoff.  John's tired; he has endured a stressful few days - due to the incompetence of your fellows, I might add.  I am taking him home and putting him to bed.  Should you need more hand-holding in regard to this case, we will be available tomorrow."  Sherlock looked at John again and added, "After noon."  Then he linked arms with his husband and started walking back to the entrance of the prison.  
  
"Tomorrow afternoon?" John asked, frowning slightly at Sherlock's words.  "I am a bit tired but not _that_ fatigued, Sherlock."  
  
"Good," Sherlock replied, and the sideways look he gave John was smouldering.  "Have I ever told you how much I enjoy your comments regarding my deductions?"  
  
John pretended to think for a moment, which was difficult as the heated look from his husband had turned his thoughts in a different direction.  "No, I don't believe that you've ever said as much."  
  
"Then I shall just have to demonstrate.  Once we have reached home."  He stepped out of the prison and dropped John's arm in order to hail a passing cab, and John paused to watch him.  
  
_Home_ , John thought, his heart warming at the thought.  Baker Street, where their daughter was by now sleeping under the watchful eye of her nanny, where Mrs. Hudson was keeping supper warm for them, where a comfortable bed awaited their pleasure.  And tomorrow there might be another case for Sherlock to investigate, running down clues and shouting for John to _"hurry, for the game's afoot!"_ And John would be right at his heels, ready to shine light on problem, or to use his fists or his revolver to keep Sherlock safe.   
  
Three years earlier he had thought his life ruined, his dreams of a future with Mary crushed into dust.  Who would have thought that he'd end up with something _so much better_?  Something real and fulfilling, at the side of a partner who would challenge his mind and provide him with danger and excitement.  Someone who shared his passion as well as the practicalities of his life.  Some might not think it a grand romance, and it wasn't what John had pictured for his future, but it suited John perfectly.  
  
Sherlock climbed inside the cab, looking down at John where he stood lost in thought, and he lifted a questioning eyebrow.  It was such a _Sherlock_ expression, combining affection and exasperation in equal parts, and John couldn't help grinning as he climbed into the cab beside him.  He wanted to tell Sherlock again that he loved him and how glad he was that he'd married him, but not with the cabbie listening.  Besides, from the expression on Sherlock's face and the softened look in his eyes, his husband knew.  So instead he began talking about their last case, about his plan for writing it up for the _Strand_ , adding in a few ridiculous suggestions for the title, just for the pleasure of hearing Sherlock's laugh.    
  
 After all, life was not only made up of adventures but of quite ordinary and everyday things.  And that suited John Watson, the 9th Earl of Saughton, _perfectly_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to come! Also, more floor plans and family charts for the Worldbuilding, with spoiler alerts for some, and then a few more chapters in both "Three Continents" and Sherlock's POV story. Nearly done!


	61. Epilogue: His Last Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the year following Moriarty's death, some things change and some things don't. And John Watson is quite happy with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the wrap-up to this story. I would blame the delay on work and the fact that I'm planning a family vacation that starts in a week (and yes, now that I've spent two years writing this story, I'm going to Disneyworld!). But the truth is that my Muses didn't want to end this fun.

The nine-days-wonder of the Moriarty Affair set all of London ablaze with gossip.  The day after the Moriarty's suicide Langdale Pike began publishing the truth about that man that he called the Napoleon of Crime - all of his murders and his plots.   The story was picked up by other papers, by other reporters, who ferreted out more information (no doubt with Mycroft's help) about the deaths in Ireland, about his false claim to legitimacy, about his criminal network.  At the end of it, Moriarty was stripped of his titles and buried in an unmarked grave at an undisclosed location, mourned by only one person.  
  
When Moran was arraigned, the news about his crimes set the papers aflame again, each succeeding headline more lurid than the one before.  During the whole of it, Moran stood at the dock, utterly silent and disdainful, while his advocates attempted to save his life but to no avail.  His confession stood and there were enough rats among the remnants of Moriarty's fledgeling empire willing to point accusing fingers in his direction.  Moran was convicted and stripped of his titles, hanged at Newgate, then buried in the prison graveyard, physically separated from his husband for eternity.  Privately, John imagined that the pair were reunited in Hell where they suffered the torments of the Damned, if there was any justice beyond the grave.

When the trial and the resultant investigation were over, several members of various law enforcements were also in prison, as were a number of politicians, tradesmen, and members of other walks of life.  John's name was completely cleared, and in such a way that left no doubt of his innocence.  As for Sarah Murphy, once the information about her involvement in the deaths of James's children was dispatched to the Sheriff in Edinburgh, constables were dispatched to arrest her.  However, she'd somehow gotten wind of the change of events and took matters into her own hand.  She set the Dower House alight, running through the house to put a torch to all the cloth and furnishings, and perished in the blazing inferno as well.  John decided against rebuilding the Dower House, choosing instead to deed part of the property to the city for a school and the rest to Hamish.

The decree recognising Sarah as James's legal wife was reviewed and declared suspect.  Both of the previous marriages were reinstated as the officers who'd testified to the marriage of James and Sarah recanted their statements and no other valid documents were found.  Janet never recovered enough of her senses to take her former place in Society, but John made sure that her children were well-provided for from the estate.  As William was keen for the Army and Charles equally enamoured with the Navy, John knew that their future would be assured.   And with Sarah dead and her marriage to Sean Martin reaffirmed, their children inherited the remaining wealth of the Murphy-Gallagher mills - enough to allow them to apprentice respectably and provide for their father's old age.

Public opinion of John changed so dramatically in the wake of the trial and the stories that it made his head spin.  His stories were reprinted and the public clamoured for more.  Editorials in the papers praised his courage in facing down Moriarty - greatly exaggerated - as loudly as they'd earlier condemned him.  Sherlock's cleverness was equally praised, and they soon had more potential clients than they could handle in a lifetime.   
  
They were also welcomed back into the Society that had shunned them.  Invitations to every party, fete, ball, and social event of the Season were left at the house.  New entry cards for Almack's were also delivered, and only the thought of how much Sherlock liked to dance kept John from ripping them in half before burning them.  He would have burned the lot, but he had more than himself to think about.  Helen's future, for one thing, was dependent on Society's approval, and there was Georgie's upcoming marriage.  And he'd promised Mycroft that he would see Sherlock set in Society, so he did his best to let go of his resentment.

At the end of July, Georgia and Molly were married at St. George's in Hanover Square and shortly afterwards they moved into Russell Square with Mycroft.  Having successfully married off her eldest child, Clara was happy to return to Scotland and devote her time to the younger children. And a special tutor was hired for Archie, at Sherlock's suggestion, to further his science education.

John and Sherlock fled London shortly after Georgia's wedding, away from the notoriety and uproar, to the cool and quiet of Saughton.  The construction of the new wing had been completed and John was pleased with the result.  Not having any patience for the minutia of decorating, he left that in Sherlock and Mrs. Turner's hands, assisted by Clara.  They turned over the contents of the attics at both Saughton and Dalmahoy and raided the shops of Edinburgh so that by the time that Mycroft and Lestrade came for a visit in late September, the wing was ready for housing guests in style.    
  
Sherlock's greenhouse and walled garden had been completed as well, to his great delight.  Assisted by the Home Farm's manager, his beehives were relocated to this more sheltered location.   New plantings designed to enhance the flavour of Saughton honey were made by Sherlock, and Sean Martin and his eldest son were entrusted with carrying them out.  Most days found Sherlock absorbed in this new project, and if John occasionally felt neglected, his husband's happiness soothed him.  
  
But in truth, John was equally busy with tasks about the estate.  The harvest had been better than the previous year, and he and Wimmering made plans to increase the number of fields for the spring planting.  The last of the old tenant cottages were pulled down as the new ones were completed, and all of the empty tenancies were filled.  John's final task before they returned to London in mid-October was to engage the architects to renovate their private rooms, to allow for a new bathing chamber in the family wing, similar to the one in the guest wing.  As this required significant disruption to their rooms, they had decided to remain in London over the winter instead of returning to Saughton at Christmas.  By the time they returned in summer, the work would be done.

So they returned to London at the start of November, and John was relieved that the furore of the summer had died down. They could once more walk down the street without being accosted, and John had great hope that they could get back to their life of solving cases.  Thus he was surprised to be summoned to Court where he was installed as a Knight of the Thistle, for his service to the kingdom and to Scotland.  While he was touched by the honour, John doubted that the ailing King had any idea as to why John was being rewarded and told Sherlock that he suspected that Mycroft was behind it.  
  
"Don't be absurd, John," Sherlock scoffed.  "Mycroft had nothing to do with it."  Then he smirked at his husband.  "He's too busy trying to secure a dukedom for his nephew to inherit."  
  
John couldn't help smiling at that for Sherlock had gotten his way - as usual - and was once more increasing.  Sherlock was _certain_ that it would be an Alpha son and John didn't point out that he'd been equally certain of that before Helen was born, valuing domestic harmony.  He didn't particularly care if the child was an Alpha or Omega, a boy or girl.  The only thing that he _was_ certain of was that he would not be excluded, as he had been the last time.  Sherlock's confinement was expected in April and both of them agreed that it would take place in Baker Street.  And so John took additional medical training at Bart's so that he could assist at the delivery, along with Dr. Agar and his midwife.  

And in the meantime there were cases - so many that Sherlock had his pick of them, able to take only the ones that appealed to him.  John thought this was a good thing, for there were no more cases from the Thames River Police.  Lestrade was deeply involved in Sir Robert Peel's new project to establish a unified police force, and Donovan had transferred to one of the Cinque Ports following the Moriarty Affair.  Bradstreet still looked in to get his advice, and there were always requests from various constables around England, but most of their clients were private.  However, John had hopes that when Peel's new force was finally established, Sherlock would once again be called upon, for he couldn't imagine that his husband would be content with finding missing trinkets and solving domestic matters forever.  For now, however, Sherlock was content and so was John. 

On April 12th, 1824, nearly a year after Moriarty's suicide, John cradled his newborn son in his arms and shared a tired smile with Sherlock.  
  
"He has your hair, John," Sherlock murmured, weary but satisfied at having delivered an Alpha son, as he'd predicted.    
  
"And my nose, too, God help him," John said, smiling fondly down at his son as he waved his arms and protested his arrival in the world.  "But your impatience, I think."    
  
Carefully, he settled the newborn on Sherlock's chest and watched as he latched on eagerly.  Sherlock winced but ruffled the pale-blond hair and stroked a baby-soft cheek with one finger.  "William Hamish Holmes-Watson," he murmured.  
  
John had no fault to find with their son being given their middle names, although he had no fondness for his own name.  "William," he agreed, sitting down on the bed beside his husband and watching as their son enjoyed his first meal.  
  
Around him, the household of Baker Street bustled.   Mrs. Hudson directed the maids as they tidied up the room.  Dr. Agar consulted with the month-nurse about Sherlock's confinement, one of the midwives that John had trained with and approved of.  Outside of the room, down in the parlour, Mycroft waited for news about his brother and his newest relation despite the lateness of the hour.  Georgia had been there earlier, but she would be at home now with Molly who was suffering miserably with morning-sickness.  Once Mycroft shared the news, he had no doubt that they would both be quick to visit.  The announcement in the papers would bring Society callers again, now that London was full to bursting for the Season, and their door knocker would scarcely be silent for weeks.   
  
But for now there was just Sherlock, nursing their infant son while their daughter slept in the nursery above them.  And John vowed that he would do everything in his power to make sure that they were all safe, and happy, for as long as he drew breath.  For, after all, they had made him the happiest man in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this particular story, but not the end of the series! In addition to the side-stories taking place during the course of this one, there will be at least one more - "The Six Watsons", based on The Six Napoleons case, with a bit extra. And possibly more. After all, John has a lot of notes in that tin box of his, and I'm only his literary agent. (Besides which, I love this universe too much to let it go.) But first, I will finish the side stories! (Which means, yes, more sex.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for 'Watson's Folly' by Diana Williams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833656) by [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope)




End file.
